UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


.*>    .<?....-  -sit,  *%  *: 


POEMS 


BY 


ROSE    TERRY    COOKE 


NEW  YORK 

WILLIAM   S.  GOTTSBERGER,   PUBLISHER 

II    MURRAY    STREET 

1888 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860 
BY   TlCKNOR  AND    FIELDS 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts, 

and  in  the  year  1888 

BY   ROSE   TERRY   COOKE 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


HEART    OF    MY   HEART!     STATELY,    AND    FAfR,    AND    SWEET; 
I    LAY   THESE   GATHERED   SHELLS    BEFORE  *THY   FEET. 
LOST   IS  THEIR   SPARKLE   OF  THE   FOAM   AND   SAND 
AND  THE   KEEN  SUNSHINE  GLITTERING  ON   THE   STRAND  ; 
YET  STILL  THEY  HOLD  THE  MURMUR  OF  THEIR   SEA: 
THE   DEEP,    PURE  OCEAN   OF   MY    LOVE   FOR   THEE. 


GO 

401384 


PREFACE. 


IN  asking  the  kindly  consideration  of  the  public  for 
this  small  book  which  is  gathered  from  many  years  of 
literary  work,  I  have  to  acknowledge  various  friendly 
expressions  of  feeling  and  encouragement,  already  ac 
corded  to  these  poems,  in  which  I  have  obeyed  the 
command  —  or  the  advice  :  "  Look  into  thine  own 
heart  and  write."  And  having  done  so,  I  borrow 
the  words,  —  somewhat  changed  to  suit  the  situa 
tion,  —  of  the  world-known  John  Rogers,  whose 
portrait  amid  curling  flames,  with  his  wife  and  ten 
very  small  children  looking  on  tranquilly  at  his  cre 
mation  at  the  stake,  was  full  of  awe  and  interest  to  my 
childhood,  as  to  all  well-brought-up  New -England 
children.  If  there  is  more  fact  than  fancy  in  the  poem 
he  left  behind  him,  it  is  therefore  the  truer  expression 
of  my  own  thought : 


H  PREFACE. 

"  I  leave  you  here  a  little  book 
For  you  to  look  upon, 
That  you  may  see  '  the  author's  '  face, 
When  '  she  '  is  dead  and  gone." 

I  wish  to  append  here  my  acknowledgments  to  the 
publishers  of  Harper's  Magazine,  the  Christian  Union, 
the  Independent,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Lippincott 's 
Magazine,  —  and  especially  to  the  Century  and  the 
Youth's  Companion,  who  accompanied  their  answer  to 
my  request  with  kind  and  encouraging  words,  always 
so  helpful  and  sweet  to  an  author  and  a  woman  —  for 
their  permission  to  republish  various  poems  from  the 
periodicals  and  papers  they  own. 

ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 

PlTTSFIELD,  MASS., 

CHRISTMAS,  1887, 


INDEX    OF    POEMS. 


PAGE 

A  Christmas  Vision, 

I2Q 

A  Complaint.      .... 

51 

A  Cry  in  the  Night. 

173 

A  Fairy  Flight. 

.    ,    ..    158 

A  Flower  Ballad. 

70 

A  Funeral  Psalm. 

...      248 

A  Hospital  Soliloquy. 

229 

A  Legend.           .... 

271 

A  Memory.          .... 

.     .     .     156 

A  New  Voice.              .         .         . 

36 

A  Rosary.           .... 

187 

A  Statue.             .         . 

114 

A  Thanksgiving. 

210 

A  Valentine.       .... 

89 

A  Wind.               .... 

179 

Afloat  

26 

Again  

I44 

Again.      "  After  many  days.'1''     . 

297 

All  Forward  ! 

294 

All  Saints'  Eve. 

33 

"  All  Thy  Works  Praise  Thee." 

5o 

An  Answer.        .... 

-.       •          59 

An  End.              .... 

.        .        .        287 

April.           ..... 

116 

IV-                                 INDEX    OF    POEMS. 

Arachne.     .         . 

PAGE 
101 

Asleep.        .         .         .         .         .         .        •.         . 

238 

Asleep,       "  So  He  givetJi  to  His  beloved  in  sleep.  " 

77 

At  Last.      .         .         .         .         .         ... 

191 

Awake  

208 

Battle-flag  Day.           .                  .         .         . 

142 

Bell  Songs,  I,     

44 

"        "        II,            .         .         .         .         -         ... 

46 

"        "        III,           ...         . 

47 

•Best.            ....... 

175 

Beyond.      .......'. 

H 

Bird  Music  '     .         . 

105 

"  Blessed  Be  Nothing."          .         .         ... 

194 

Blue-Beard's  Closet. 

21 

C.  E.  T.     .         .         .       . 

204 

Camaralzaman.         <•••,         .         .         .         . 

212 

Captive  •     . 

224 

"  Che  Sara  Sara."           .         .         .     •    .        :.  .      . 

2OO 

Chrysanthemums.        .         .         .         ... 

119 

Columbine.          .         »                  .         .         .         . 

145 

Coming  v         . 

289 

Dagmar  .- 

226 

Daily  Bread  

205 

Daisies.       .         .         .         .                  . 

140 

Dead  in  the  Nest.        . 

280 

Dead  Love.          

23I 

December  XXXI.        .         .         . 

180 

Decoration  Day.          .         .         .         .         . 

62 

Departing.           .         .         .         .         ... 

"3 

Dies  Ilia.    .         .         .        ..  t      . 

97 

Doubt.         .         .         . 

225 

Emerson,  R.  W.          .         .         .         .       '  , 

260 

En  Espagne.       .         .        .        .        . 

68 

INDEX    OF    POEMS. 

V 

Exogenesis.         .         .         . 

PAGE 
222 

Faithful  

236 

Fallen,        .                   

198 

Fastrada's  Ring.          

106 

Flowers.     ....... 

274 

Gone.          . 

2O2 

Gray.           

.        .    189 

Groton  Massacre.        .         .         . 

3°5 

H.  W.  H. 

264 

"  Hoeret  Lateri."  

290 

He  and  She  

232 

Here  

no 

Here  

219 

Hesper.      .         .         .         .         .         . 

133 

In  Pace.      .                  

216 

In  Part  

190 

In  the  Hammock. 

296 

In  the  Hospital.          .:         . 

186 

In  Vain.      .         ... 

160 

Indolence.            .  '      .         . 

164 

"  It  is  more  Blessed."    ..... 

15 

Jephtha's  Daughter  

.         176 

John  Brown.        ...... 

228 

Justice.        ....... 

$1 

"  Lata  Silentia."    

117 

Latter  Spring.     ...... 

197 

Life  and  Death.           

233 

Lise.            

112 

Loss  and  Gain.  ...... 

74 

Lotos-Land.         .         .         .         . 

181 

Margaritas  Ante  Porcos  

124 

Mary.          

132 

Mary,  the  Mother  of  the  Lord. 

149 

• 


INDEX    OF    POEMS. 


Saint  Symphorien. 


•  S^^^^S* 

• 


*  * 


•'    >* 


•  jUrjr 


INDEX   OF    TRANSLATIO: 


Genevieve. 

T  nst  r>n  trip    Prairie. 


POEMS 


. 

V 

• 

• 
• 

- 

' 

. 


• 


POEMS. 

But  I,  dismayed  as  snows  in  Spring, 
Cried  out,  "  The  lips  that  drink  must  sing ; 
Ask  thou  from  me  some  other  thing  ! 
If  I  see  sorrow,  and  interpret  it, 
The  rude  world  crieth  shame  that  I  should  quit 
The  grief  I  feel  and  speak  to  ears  unfit. 

"  If  I  speak  pain,  then  I  must  be 
Like  her  who  rode  through  Coventry, 
But  shamed  by  eyes  that  peer  and  see. 
I  breathe  the  thoughts  I  gather  in  my  soul, 
And  scorn  and  curious  eyes  the  leaf  unroll, 
To  find  my  life  hid  in  that  traitorous  scroll. 

"  Better  to  die  and  pass  away 
From  the  wide  eyes  of  mortal  day, 
Than  be  a  lute  for  all  to  play. 
Better  to  hide  my  lips  in  grass  and  mold, 
Where  the  wild  blossoms  pour  their  cups  of  gold, 
Than  sing  of  tropics  to  this  wintry  cold." 

But  tranquilly  the  angel  said  : 
"  Thou  livest  not  to  die  of  dread 

For  any  words  the  world  hath  said. 
Thou  art  a  cup  held  in  another  hand, 
And  1f  He  pour  thy  life  out  on  the  sand, 
Shall  it  not  waste,  if  so  He  give  command  ? 

"  What  if  thy  heart  be  bared  to  see  — 
If  thy  pain  serves  one  misery 
To  patient  hope,  why  let  it  be ! 


MY    CUP. 

One  whom  thou  darest  not  liken  to  thy  dust 
Groaned  in  his  death  with  anguish  and  mistrust 
For  the  whole  world  to  hear ;   art  thou  more  just  ? 

"  He  made  his  soul  a  sacrifice 
To  human  pangs,  and  paid  their  price 
In  open  day;  art  thou  more  nice  ? 
If,  from  the  millions  born  and  dead  in  pain, 
Thine  inmost  sacred  sorrow  wept  one  stain, 
Couldst  thou  dare  veil  it,  suffer  it  in  vain  ? 

"  If  this  were  Fame's  immortal  drink, 
What  instant  wouldst  thou  pause  and  think 
Before  thy  lips  assailed  the  brink  ? 
But  thy  poor  service  is  no  longer  thine, 
If  He  shall  use  it  for  his  ends  divine 
Who  turned  mere  water  into  festal  wine. 

"  Arise,  and  put  thy  fears  aside, 

Obey,  and  let  the  end  abide, 

Thou  hast  a  legion  on  thy  side!" 
So  from  the  sand  I  rose  and  took  the  draught, 
And  while  my  lips  the  bitter  bubbles  quaffed, 
Low  at  my  feet  the  soft  gray  billows  laughed. 


OFFERINGS. 

"  O  SUN  !"  said  the  rose, 
"  Out  of  the  snows, 

Out  of  the  frost's  black  prison, 

I  have  arisen. 

Thy  look,  thy  light, 

Brought  me  to  life's  delight : 

What  shall  I  give  to  thee  ? 

The  blood-red  color  of  my  breast, 

My  tender  blush,  my  creamy  vest, 

My  golden  cup,  lifted  up  ? 

The  beauty  born  of  thee  — 

In  splendid  mystery 

By  thee,  my  God, 

Drawn  upward  from  the  sod  — 

I  offer  this  to  thee." 

"  What  shall  I  give  to  thee  ?" 

The  heaven-blue  violet  said. 
"  Take  these  soft  odors  shed 

Out  of  my  dreaming  heart 

For  my  sweet  part 

Of  gift  and  blessing, 

For  thy  caressing  — 

My  very  breath,  O  Sun! 


OFFERINGS. 

For  this  that  thou  hast  done : 
For  life,  for  living, 
For  joy  of  giving, 
I  offer  this  to  thee." 

"  And  I  —  he  bade  me  live ; 
What  can  I  give  ?" 
The  green  grass  sighed 
From  far  and  wide : 
"  Not  hues  divine 
Nor  fragrance  mine ; 
No  glory  can  I  yield 
Who  clothe  the  common  field 
And  feed  the  lowing  herds, 
Or  nest  the  little  birds, 
Or,  grown  full  tall  and  lithe, 
Fall  low  before  the  scythe; 
Sweet  breath  nor  splendid  dress : 
But  my  poor  usefulness  — 
All  that  I  have  — 
A  grateful  slave, 

0  Sun  and  Lord,  to  thee, 

1  offer  joyfully !" 


THE  MAN  WHO  LOVED  THE  QUEEN. 

How  could  he  choose  but  love  the  Queen  ? 
Her  starry  eyes  were  soft  and  bright, 
Her  hair  as  dark  as  summer  night ; 
Above  her  fairest  forehead  set, 
In  braid  on  braid  of  gleaming  jet, 
A  native  regal  coronet. 

How  could  he  choose  but  love  the  Queen  ? 
The  scarlet  sweetness  of  her  mouth, 
Her  cheek  a  lily  of  the  South  ; 
Her  smile  the  sudden  light  of  day, 
Calm  as  the  sun's  adoring  ray 
Upon  a  saint  who  kneels  to  pray. 

Yet  not  for  this  he  loved  the  Queen  ? 

For  other  maidens  shone  as  fair, 

With  radiant  eyes  and  dusky  hair. 

Her  royal  soul  and  gentle  grace 

Shone  through  their  beauteous  dwelling-place, 

And  set  a  glory  on  her  face. 

So  mightily  he  loved  the  Queen, 

The  ground  on  which  her  footsteps  trod 

He  guarded  as  a  sacred  sod. 


THE    MAN    WHO    LOVED    THE    QUEEN. 

Her  gracious  accents  were  to  him 
More  holy  than  cathedral  hymn, 
More  sweet  than  quiring  cherubim. 

So  loyally  he  loved  the  Queen, 
Out  from  before  her  face  he  fled, 
Lest  any  idle  word  were  said ; 
Lest  men  defiled  her  spotless  fame 
With  look  profane  or  mortal  name, 
Or  soiled  her  soul  with  trifling  blame. 

He  wandered  to  the  Sepulcher, 
Jesu  forgive  !  for  love  of  her. 
Whatever  loss,  or  shame,  or  woe 
Assayed  his  life  with  traitorous  blow, 
His  heart  defied  them,  whispering  low, 
"  I  am  the  man  that  loves  the  Queen." 

No  terror  stayed  his  valiant  arm, 
No  creeping  evil  worked  him  harm, 
He  lived  to  conquer  and  endure, 
One  treasure,  in  his  heart  secure, 
Guerdoned  his  life  and  kept  it  pure  — 
"  I  am  the  man  that  loves  the  Queen." 

For  her  sweet  sake  he  lived  and  died, 
Stainless  as  she  in  royal  pride ; 
His  locks  grew  white,  his  pulses  cold, 
But  time  nor  chance  can  tarnish  gold. 
His  dying  lips  the  secret  told  — 
"  I  am  the  man  who  loves  the  Queen." 


POEMS. 

O  poet  of  the  miracle  ! 
What  use  the  ancient  tale  to  tell  ? 
In  all  the  world  that  lives  to-day 
Dare  any  man  this  part  essay  ? 
Dare  any  hapless  woman  say, 
"  This  is  the  man  that  loved  the  Queen  ?" 


TRAILING   ARBUTUS. 

DARLINGS  of  the  forest ! 

Blossoming  alone 
When  Earth's  grief  is  sorest 

For  her  jewels  gone  — 

Ere  the  last  snow-drift  melts,  your  tender  buds  have 
blown. 

Tinged  with  color  faintly, 

Like  the  morning  sky, 
Or  more  pale  and  saintly, 

Wrapped  in  leaves  ye  lie, 
Even  as  children  sleep  in  faith's  simplicity. 

There  the  wild  wood-robin 

Hymns  your  solitude, 
And  the  rain  comes  sobbing 

Through  the  budding  wood, 

While  the  low  south  wind  sighs,  but  dare  not  be  more 
rude. 


TRAILING    ARBUTUS.  9 

Were  your  pure  lips  fashioned 

Out  of  air  and  dew  : 
Starlight  unimpassioned, 

Dawn's  most  tender  hue  — 

And  scented  by  the  woods  that  gathered   sweets  for 
you? 

Fairest  and  most  lonely, 
From  the  world  apart, 
Made  for  beauty  only, 

Veiled  from  Nature's  heart, 

With  such  unconscious  grace  as  makes  the  dream  of 
Art! 

Were  not  mortal  sorrow 

An  immortal  shade, 
Then  would  I  to-morrow 
Such  a  flower  be  made, 

And  live  in  the  dear  woods  where  my  lost  childhood 
played. 


ONCE    BEFORE. 


SOLE  she  sat  beside  her  window, 
Hearing  only  rain-drops  pour, 
Looking  only  at  the  shore, 

When,  outside  the  little  casement, 

Weeping  in  a  feigned  abasement, 
Love  stood  knocking  — 

Knocking  at  her  bolted  door. 

Slow  she  swung  the  little  casement 
Where  the  Autumn  roses  glowed, 
Sweet  and  sad  her  deep  eyes  showed ; 

And  her  voice,  in  gentlest  measure, 

Said  aloud  —  "  Nor  Love,  nor  Pleasure 
Can  come  in  here  any  more  — 

Never,  any  more !" 

"  Hut  I  am  not  Love  nor  Pleasure  — 

I  am  but  an  orphan  baby ; 

Lost,  my  mother  is,  or  maybe 
Dead  she  lies,  while  I  am  weeping," 
Sobbed  the  child,  his  soft  lie  creeping 

Softly  through  the  bolted  door  — 
Through  the  maiden's  door. 


SAINT    SYMPHORIEN.  II 

Low  she  said,  in  accents  lonely  : 
"  Once  I  let  him  in  before, 
Once  I  opened  wide  my  door. 

Ever  since  my  life  is  dreary, 

All  my  prayers  are  vague  and  weary ; 
Once  I  let  him  in  before, 

Now  I'll  double-lock  the  door!" 

In  the  rain  he  stands  imploring ; 

Tears  and  kisses  storm  the  door, 

Where  she  let  him  in  before. 
Will  she  never  know  repenting  ? 
Will  she  ever,  late  relenting, 

Let  him  in,  as  once  before  ? 
Will  she  double-lock  the  door  ? 


SAINT    SYMPHORIEN. 

[LED   OUT  TO   MARTYRDOM  :    HIS   MOTHER   SPEAKING 
FROM  THE  WALL.) 

SYMPHORIEN  !  Symphorien ! 
Look  up  !  the  heavens  are  parting  wide. 
He  waits  for  thee  —  the  Crucified. 
The  pain  is  short,  the  palm  is  near. 
Look  up  !     O  God !  he  cannot  hear, 

Symphorien !  Symphorien ! 
Where  is  my  voice  ?  my  breath  is  gone : 


12  POEMS. 

Symphorien !  my  son,  my  son ! 
Ah  —  look !  —  his  clear  eyes  turn  to  me, 
His  firm,  sweet,  smiling  lips  I  see. 
God  will  be  good  to  thee  and  me, 
Symphorien ! 

Dear  Lord,  how  long  I  prayed  for  him, 
With  trembling  tongue,  and  vision  dim  : 
For  baby  hands  about  my  breast, 
For  baby  kisses  on  it  pressed ! 
Thou  heardest  me  :  —  this  is  the  rest ! 

Symphorien !  Symphorien ! 
My  child !  my  boy  !  it  is  not  much, 
Only  a  sharp  and  sudden  touch, 
Think  on  the  Master,  —  not  on  me  : 
Remember  His  long  agony. 
The  lictors  will  be  merciful, 
The  headsman's  axe  will  not  be  dull, 
Only  one  moment  —  then  for  thee 
The  raptures  of  eternity, 
Symphorien ! 

My  baby !  oh,  my  baby  boy ! 

A  miracle  of  life  and  joy  : 

A  rosy,  careless,  dimpled  thing. 

And  now  Dear  Lord,  be  comforting !  — 

Martyr  and  saint.     Let  be !  let  be ! 

He  must  not  know  this  agony. 

Through  my  heart,  too,  the  sword  hath  gone. 

Be  silent  lest  he  hear  me  groan  — 

Symphorien !  Symphorien ! 


SAINT    SYMPHORIEN.  13 

One  last  long  look  :  oh  saint !  my  child. 
My  boy !  my  own  !  —  He  turned  and  smiled. 
And  now  behind  the  crowd  of  spears, 
The  whirling  dust,  —  he  disappears. 
Symphorien ! 

Martyr  and  saint  ?     You  think  I  care  ? 
Oh,  fools  and- blind!     I  am  his  mother. 
What !  bless  the  Lord  and  turn  to  prayer  ? 
He  is  my  child  —  I  have  no  other. 
No  hands  to  clasp,  no  lips  to  kiss. 
Who  talks  to  me  of  heaven's  bliss  ? 

Symphorien !  Symphorien ! 
Comeback!  comeback!     Deny  the  Lord! 
Traitor  ?  —  Who  hissed  that  buniing  word  ? 
I  did  not  say  it.     God  !  be  just 
I  did  not  keep  him ;  I  am  dust. 
The  flesh  rebels.     I  am  his  mother. 
Thou  didst  not  give  me  any  other. 
Thine  only  Son  ?  —  but  I  am  human. 
Art  thou  not  God  ?  —  I  am  a  woman. 

Symphorien !  Symphorien ! 
Come  back  ! 


BEYOND. 

THE  stranger  wandering  in  the  Switzer's  land, 
Before  its  awful  mountain  tops  afraid,  — 

Who  yet,  with  patient  toil,  hath  gained  his  stand, 
On  the  bare  summit  where  all  life  is  stayed, 

Sees  far,  far  down,  beneath  his  blood-dimmed  eyes, 
Another  country,  golden  to  the  shore, 

Where  a  new  passion  and  new  hopes  arise, 
Where  Southern  blooms  unfold  forevermore. 

And  I,  lone  sitting  by  the  twilight  blaze, 
Think  of  another  wanderer  in  the  snows, 

And  on  more  perilous  mountain-tops  I  gaze, 
Than  ever  frowned  above  the  vine  and  rose. 

Yet  courage,  soul !  nor  hold  thy  strength  in  vain, 
In  hope  o'ercome  the  steeps  God  set  for  thee; 

For  past  the  Alpine  summits  of  great  pain, 
Lieth  thine  Italy. 


"IT    IS   MORE    BLESSED." 

GIVE  !  as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of  heaven  ; 
Give !  as  the  waves  when  their  channel  is  riven ; 
Give  !  as  the  free  air  and  sunshine  are  given ; 

Lavishly,  utterly,  carelessly  give. 
Not  the  waste  drops  of  thy  cup  overflowing, 
Not  the  faint  sparks  of  thy  hearth  ever  glowing, 
Not  a  pale  bud  from  the  June  rose's  blowing; 

Give  as  He  gave  thee,  who  gave  thee  to  live. 

Pour  out  thy  love  like  the  rush  of  a  river 

Wasting  its  waters,  forever  and  ever, 

Through  the  burnt  sands  that  reward  not  the  giver; 

Silent  or  songful,  thou  nearest  the  sea. 
Scatter  thy  life  as  the  Summer  shower's  pouring ! 
What  if  no  bird  through  the  pearl-rain  is  soaring  ? 
What  if  no  blossom  looks  upward  adoring  ? 

Look  to  the  life  that  was  lavished  for  thee  ! 

Give,  though  thy  heart  may  be  wasted  and  weary, 
Laid  on  an  altar  all  ashen  and  dreary ; 
Though  from  its  pulses  a  faint  miserere 

Beats  to  thy  soul  the  sad  presage  of  fate, 
Bind  it  with  cords  of  unshrinking  devotion; 
Smile  at  the  song  of  its  restless  emotion ; 
'Tis  the  stern  hymn  of  eternity's  ocean ; 

Hear  !  and  in  silence  thy  future  await. 


l6  POEMS. 

So  the  wild  wind  strews  its  perfumed  caresses, 
Evil  and  thankless  the  desert  it  blesses, 
Bitter  the  wave  that  its  soft  pinion  presses, 

Never  it  ceaseth  to  whisper  and  sing. 
What  if  the  hard  heart  give  thorns  for  thy  roses  ? 
What  if  on  rocks  thy  tired  bosom  reposes  ? 
Sweetest  is  music  with  minor-keyed  closes, 

Fairest  the  vines  that  on  ruin  will  cling. 

Almost  the  day  of  thy  giving  is  over ; 

Ere  from  the  grass  dies  the  bee-haunted  clover, 

Thou  wilt  have  vanished  from  friend  and  from  lover. 

What  shall  thy  longing  avail  in  the  grave  ? 
Give  as  the  heart  gives  whose  fetters  are  breaking, 
Life,  love,  and  hope,  all  thy  dreams  and  thy  waking. 
Soon,  heaven's  river  thy  soul-fever  slaking, 

Thou  shalt  know  God  and  the  gift  that  he  gave. 


SCHEMHAMMPHORASCH. 

"  This  is  the  key  which  was  given  by  the  angel  Michael  to  Pali,  and 
by  Pali  to  Moses.  If  'thou  canst  read  it,  then  shall  thou  understand 
the  words  of  men,  *  *  the  whistling  of  birds,  the  language  of  date- 
trees,  the  unity  of  hearts,  *  <•  *  *  nay,  even  the  thoughts  of  the 
rains.'  "  —  Gleanings  after  the  Talmud. 


AH  !  could  I  read  Schemhammphorasch, 
The  wondrous  keynote  of  the  world, 
What  voices  could  I  always  hear 
From  tempests,  with  their  black  wings  furled, 
That  on  the  sudden  west  winds  steer, 
And,  muttering  low  their  awful  song, 
Or  pealing  through  the  mountains  strong, 
Robe  all  the  skies  with  sheeted  fire ; 
That  pour  from  heaven  a  rushing  river, 
That  bid  the  hill -tops  bow  and  quiver, 
Mad  with  some  fierce  and  wild  desire. 

The  dreadful  anthem  of  the  wind. 
That  sweeps  through  forests  as  a  plow, 
That  lays  the  greensward  heaped  below, 
Would  chant  its  meaning  to  my  mind, 
And  I  could  tell  the  tale  to  man 
In  words  that  burn  and  glow  with  splendor ; 
Then  should  the  whole  wide  sky  surrender 
Its  hidden  voice,  its  wondrous  plan, 
Asleep  since  earliest  time  began ; 


1 8  POEMS. 

And  all  my  soul,  most  like  a  blaze 

That  burns  the  branches  whence  it  springeth, 

Should  flame  to  heaven  in  mightier  lays 

Than  any  mortal  poet  singeth, 

If  I  could  read  Schemhammphorasch. 

If  I  could  read  Schemhammphorasch, 

When  little  birds  are  softly  singing, 

Or  twitter  from  their  greenwood  nests, 

Where  safe  and  still  the  mother  rests ; 

Or  else,  upon  the  glad  wind  springing, 

Send  up  their  tender  morning  song  ; 

Then  should  I  know  their  secret  blisses, 

The  thrill  of  life  and  love  they  feel 

AVhen  summer's  sun  their  bright  heads  kisses, 

Or  summer's  winds  about  them  steal. 

Or,  listening  to  the  early  blossoms 

That  are  so  fleeting  and  so  fair, 

With  perfume  sighing  from  their  bosoms 

Its  incense  on  the  gracious  air, 

I  think  that  I  should  hear  a  prayer 

So  sweet,  so  patient,  and  so  lowly, 

That  mortal  words  most  pure  and  rare 

Would  scarce  unveil  its  meaning  holy. 

From  forests  whence  the  murmurous  leaves 

Breathe  their  content  in  rustling  quiver, 

Or  droop  when  any  rain-wind  grieves, 

Or  where  some  broad  and  brimming  river 

O'erflowing  to  the  mighty  sea, 

Sings  the  proud  joy  of  destiny, 


SCHEMHAMMPHORASCH.  ig 

The  glad  acclaim  of  life  and  breath ; 
The  courage  of  confronted  death  ; 
Ah  !  what  a  rapturous,  glorious  song 
Should  seize  with  bliss  this  earthly  throng, 
If  I  could  read  Schemhammphorasch  ! 

If  I  could  read.  Schemhammphorasch, 
Then  should  I  know  the  souls  of  men, 
Too  deep  for  any  other  ken ; 
I  could  translate  the  silent  speech 
Of  glittering  eye  and  knotted  brow, 
Though  still  the  wily  tongue  might  teach 
A  different  script  with  voice  and  vow. 
The  blood  that  runs  in  traitorous  veins ; 
The  breath  that  gasps  with  hope  or  fear ; 
The  stifled  sigh,  the  hidden  tear; 
The  death-pang  of  immortal  pains, 
That  hide  their  mortal  agony, 
Would  have  their  own  low  voice  for  me; 
Their  tale  of  hate  and  misery, 
Their  sob  of  passion  and  despair, 
Their  sacred  love,  their  frantic  prayer. 
My  soul  would  be  the  listening  priest 
To  hear  confession  far  and  near, 
And  woe  and  want  from  first  to  least 
Would  shriek  its  utterance  in  my  ear. 
Ah,  could  I  bear  to  live  and  hear 
These  cries  that  heaven  itself  might  flee, 
These  terrors  heaven  alone  may  see, 
If  I  could  read  Schemhammphorasch  ? 


20  POEMS. 

If  I  could  read  Schemhammphorasch, 
My  brain  would  burn  with  such  a  fire 
As  lights  the  awful  cherubim; 
My  heart  would  burst  with  woe  and  ire, 
My  flesh  would  shrivel  and  expire ; 
Yea !  God  himself  grow  far  and  dim. 
I  cannot  hold  the  boundless  sea 
In  one  small  chalice  lent  to  me ; 
I  cannot  grasp  the  starry  sky 
In  one  weak  hand,  and  bid  it  lie 
Where  I  would  have  a  canopy ; 
I  cannot  hate  and  love  together ; 
I  cannot  poise  the  heavy  world, 
Or  hear  its  hiss  through  chaos  hurled, 
Or  stay  the  falling  of  a  feather. 
No,  not  if  Michael  came  once  more, 
Standing  upon  the  sea  and  shore, 
And  held  his  right  hand  down  to  me, 
That  I  that  awful  word  might  see, 
And  learn  to  read  its  lesson  dread. 
My  soul  in  dust  would  bow  her  head, 
Mine  eyes  would  close,  my  lips  would  say, 
"  Oh,  Master !  take  thy  gift  away  : 
Leave  me  to  live  my  little  day 
In  peace  and  trust  while  yet  I  may. 
For  could  I  live,  or  love,  or  pray, 
If  I  could  read  Schemhammphorasch  ?" 


21 


BLUE-BEARD'S    CLOSET. 

FASTEN  the  chamber! 

Hide  the  red  key  ; 

Cover  the  portal, 

That  eyes  may  not  see. 

Get  thee  to  market, 

To   wedding  and    prayer; 

Labor  or  revel, 

The  chamber  is  there  ! 

In  comes  a  stranger  — 
"  Thy  pictures  how  fine, 

Titian  or  Guido, 

Whose  is  the  sign  ?" 

Looks  he  behind  them  ? 

Ah  !  have  a  care ! 
"  Here  is  a  finer." 

The  chamber  is  there  ! 

Fair  spreads  the  banquet, 
Rich  the  array ; 
See  the  bright  torches 
Mimicking  day; 
When  harp  and  viol 
Thrill  the  soft  air, 
Comes  a  light  whisper: 
The  chamber  is  there ! 


22  POEMS. 


Marble  and  painting, 
Jasper  and  gold, 
Purple  from  Tyrus, 
Fold  upon  fold, 
Blossoms  and  jewels, 
Thy  palace  prepare : 
Pale  grows  the  monarch; 
The  chamber  is  there  / 

Once  it  was  open 
As  shore  to  the  sea; 
White  were  the  turrets, 
Goodly  to  see; 
All  through  the  casements 
Flowed  the  sweet  air; 
Now  it  is  darkness; 
The  chamber  is  there  ! 

Silence  and  horror 
Brood  on  the  walls ; 
Through  every  crevice 
A  little  voice  calls : 
"  Quicken,  mad  footsteps, 
On  pavement  and  stair; 
Look  not  behind  thee, 
The  chamber  is  there  /" 

Out  of  the  gateway, 
Through  the  wide  world, 
Into  the  tempest 
Beaten  and  hurled, 


SOLITAIRE.  23 

Vain  is  thy  wandering, 
Sure  thy  despair, 
Flying  or  staying, 
The  chamber  is  there  ! 


SOLITAIRE. 

PATIENCE  ?    Yes,  that's  a  woman's  game ; 

The  dull  delight  of  solitude, 
Where  rank  on  rank  she  strives  to  frame, 

And  speech  or  laughter  ne'er  intrude. 

Night  after  night,  beside  the  fire, 
When  evening's  lonely  lamp  is  lit, 

Oppressed  with  thought    that  vex  and  tire, 
Among  the  cards  her  fingers  flit. 

The  woman's  game !     On  some  poor  king 
The  sequence  of  her  play  is  built ; 

The  queen  comes  after,  hapless  thing ! 
And  next  the  knave  with  grinning  guilt. 

Then  all  her  treasures,  one  by  one, 
Are  thrown  away  to  swell  the  pile, 

The  last  and  least :  when  that  is  done, 
Begin  again ;  the  night  beguile. 


24  •  POEMS. 

A  woman's  game;  to  sit  and  wait; 

Build  and  rebuild,  though  fate  destroy. 
Shuffle  the  cards ;  for  soon  or  late 

There  comes  an  end  to  grief  and  joy. 

A  man  may  fight,  or  sow,  or  reap, 
Divide  the  seas,  or  traverse  earth ; 

She  can  but  drudge,  or  pray,  or  weep, 
What  are  her  life  or  loving  worth  ? 

She  sits  there  when  the  day  is  dead, 
Lonely  and  listless.     Do  you  dare 

Deny,  when  all  is  done  and  said, 
That  woman's  game  is  solitaire  ? 


THE    LESSON. 


FLUTTER  thy  new  wings  lightly, 

Poor,  fearful  little  bird! 
Nor  grasp  thy  bough  so  tightly ; 

Hast  thou  not  heard 

That  flood  of  loving   song  wherewith  the  leaves  are 
stirred  ? 

Still  pois<  ',;  afraid  of  flying ! 
What  softer  mother-call, 


THE    LESSON.  25 

Through  the  warm  sunshine  crying, 

Could  woo  thee  not  to  fall  ? 
Doth  not  its  sweetness  say,  —  "  Dear  child,  fear  not 

at  all  ?" 

Now  the  cool  wind  shall  aid  thee ; 

Spread  thy  new  wings  and  fly ! 

The  master-hand  that  made  thee, 

Gave  heart  and  wings  to  try. 
The  worst  fate  that  befalls  can  only  be  to  die. 

Ah !  from  the  light  branch  springing, 

My  little  darling  flies, 
And  that  low,  tender  singing 

In  tenderer  silence  dies, 

While  with    adventurous   plume    her   nestling   tempts 
the  skies. 

His  new-discovered  pinions 

Shall  bear  thy  bird  away, 
Into  those  far  dominions, 

Beyond  the  dawning  day, 
And  thou,  poor  mother-heart,  in  solitude  shall  stay. 

Yet  some  most  weary  proving 

Taught  him  to  spread  the  wing, 
And  some  most  lonely  loving 

Taught  thee  such  notes  to  sing. 

God   keep  both    song    and    strength  to  decorate  His 
Spring  ! 


26 


AFLOAT. 

THE  south  wind  wanders  through  the  noon, 

Half  coolness  and  half  fire ; 
Plays  in  the  tree  a  rustling  tune, 

Then,  seeming  to  expire, 
Leaves  all  the  burning  noonday  heat 
Upon  my  drowsy  brain  to  beat. 

In  sunny  meadows  lies  the  hay, 

And  sends  a  fragrant  breath 
Across  its  heaps  of  misty  gray  — 

The  plaintive  sweets  of  death. 
No  vernal  odors  come  to  me 
From  summer  days  that  fade  and  flee. 

Far  down  the  blue  and  gleaming  lake 

Aerial  shadows  glide ; 
The  little  waves  forever  break 

Along  its  grassy  side : 
A  lulling  murmur  of  repose, 
A  monotone  no  music  knows. 

Sweet,  sweeter  than  all  sweetnesses 

Of  May-time  or  of  June, 
Is  this  cool  shadow's  quietness, 

This  lapping  water's  tune ; 


AFLOAT.  27 

The  soft  green  light  of  wave  and  shore, 
The  scent  of  woods,  the  dripping  oar. 

Then  up  through  heaven  the  mighty  stars  - 

March  all  their  glittering  host ; 
The  low  horizon's  sunset  bars 

Are  faded  out  and  lost. 
Those  sparks  that  crowd  the  solemn  sky 
Are  fragments  of  eternity. 

Afloat  between  the  dark  and  light, 

What  gracious  peace  and  rest 
Fills  all  the  dusk  and  dewy  night, 

The  broad  earth's  tranquil  breast. 
The  fret  and  fever  of  the  day 
In  this  sweet  silence  dies  away. 

Beyond  all  mortal  faith  or  fear, 

Like  some  unbodied  soul 
I  glide,  and  dream,  and  idle  here, 

A  speck  on  Titan's  bowl ; 
Nor  care  if,  in  his  haste  to  sup, 
The  thirsty  giant  drink  me  up  ! 


28 


THE    TWO    VILLAGES. 


OVER  the  river,  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still ; 
All  around  it  the  forest-trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze  ; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow, 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river,  under  the  hill, 
Another  village  lieth  still ; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river-shore ; 
And  in  the  roads  no  grasses  grow, 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowers ; 

Never  a  clock  to  toll  the  hours ; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut, 

You  cannot  enter  in  hall  or  hut ; 


MY    HOUSE.  29 

All  the  villagers  lie  asleep ; 
Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap  ; 
Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh ; 
Silent  and  idle  and  low  they  lie. 

In  that  village  under  the  hill, 
When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 
And  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home  from  this  below ; 
Longs  to  sleep  in  the  forest  wild, 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praying,  this  answer  fall : 
"  Patience !  that  village  shall  hold  ye  all !" 


MY    HOUSE. 


I  AM  looking  up  and  down, 
Up  and  down,  through  the  town, 
For  a  little  house  to  dwell  in, 

A  shelter  and  a  nest : 
But  though  the  buds  are  swelling, 
And  the  springs  from  earth  are  welling, 

1  cannot  find  a  place  for  my  rest. 


30  POEMS. 

There  are  no  walls  to  hold  us, 
Not  a  home  to  enfold  us. 
Not  a  hearth  for  a  fire, 
Not  a  chamber  for  our  sleep ; 
In  vain  my  quest  I  keep, 
None  answer  my  desire, 
Up  and  down, 
Through  the  town. 

Then  suddenly  I  hear 
A  whisper  in  my  ear  — 
"  Turn  aside  from  thy  seeking, 
Listen  to  my  speaking  : 
There  is  a  house  for  thee ! 
There  are  trees  to  shade  the  summer, 
There  is  room  for  every  comer, 
And  broad  the  gateways  be 
To  this  home  that  waits  for  thee. 

"  Up  and  down, 

Through  the  town, 
Thou  needest  not  to  wander ; 
Thy  house  is  ready  yonder. 

The  roof  is  smooth  and  green, 
And  the  chamber  is  so  still 
Thou  canst  slumber  there  thy  fill. 
And  thy  house  shall  no  man  borrow 
To-day  nor  to-morrow, 
Nor  vexed  with  joy  or  sorrow, 

Is  that  dwelling-place  serene. 


MY    HOUSE.  31 

'•  There  is  no  price  to  pay, 
No  need  to  move  away, 
No  evil  eye  can  harm  thee, 
Nor  man,  nor  beast  alarm  thee ; 
Thy  flowers  grow  very  fair 
In  the  summer-scented  air, 
And  the  snows  lie  still  and  soft, 
Up  aloft. 

"Thy  house  is  ready  here, 
Ready  this  many  a  year  : 

Seek  no  more, 

For  the  door 
Is  opening  to  thy  feet, 
And  the  wide  and  silent  street 
Is  ready  for  thy  tread 
In  the  city  of  the  dead. 
Seek  no  longer !  here  is  rest  for  heart  and  head, 

Come  in  here." 


THE    GOOD    SHEPHERD. 


O  SHEPHERD,  all  divine, 

Thou  that  dost  guide  thy  wayward,  wandering  sheep 
Through  quiet  pastures,  and  their  pathway  keep 
Where  the  fresh  grass  springs,  and  the  waters  pine 
Through  pleasant  meadows ;  where  the  blossoms  sleep 
Till  dawn  awakes  them,  and  the  dew-beads  shine ; 
Is  there  within  thy  fold  yet  room  ?     May  I  be  thine  ? 

Thou  through  the  sultry  day 
Keepest  the  tender  guidance  of  thy  flock ; 
And  in  the  shadow  of  some  towering  rock, 
When  the  cool  morning  freshness  dies  away, 
Hid'st  them,  till  twilight's  shadowy  gates  unlock, 
And  stars  shine  out  upon  their  onward  way, 
And  the  tired,  bleating  lambs  upon  thy  heart  dost  lay. 

When  the  red  sun  is  gone, 
And  on  the  mountain-crest  the  streaks  of  light 
Have  vanished  from  the  watcher's  straining  sight, 
And  in  the  tree-tops  fitful  breezes  moan  : 
Through  all  the  fearful  sounds  that  haunt  the  night, 
Thou  leav'st  them  not  in  darkness,  and  alone, 
But  with  thy  soothing  voice  still  comfortest  thine  own. 


ALL  SAINTS'  EVE.  33 

There  till  the  dawn  they  lie 
Clustered  about  thee,  helpless  but  secure; 
Since  thou  who  didst  for  them  so  long  endure 
To  walk  the  rugged  hilly  ways,  and  try 
With  bleeding  feet  their  track,  to  prove  it  sure, 
Though  now  unseen  for  darkness,  still  art  nigh; 
They  fear  not  any  foes  beneath  thy  watchful  eye. 

Oh  that  I  too  were  there  ! 
Trembling  and  weak,  safe  folded  in  thy  breast : 
With  thee  to  wander  and  beside  thee  rest, 
Drinking  at  those  clear  springs  and  rivers  fair : 
In  thy  dear  love  and  light  forever  blest, 
O  patient  Shepherd  !  take  me  to  thy  care ! 
From  thy  forgiving  heart  cast  not  away  my  prayer. 


ALL   SAINTS'    EVE. 


TO-NIGHT,  if  true  the  legend  tells, 

All  parted  souls  return  : 

When  softly  toll  the  midnight  bells 

And  red  the  hearth-fires  burn, 

The  wistful  sprites  come  back  again 

From  grassy  grave  and  urn. 

3 


34  POEMS. 

0  legend  sweet,  come  true  to-night, 
If  never  true  before ! 

Bring  back  to  me  the  eyes  of  light, 
The  lips  that  smiled  of  yore  ; 
Bring  back  the  fair  and  pallid  face 

1  thought  to  see  no  more ! 

Thou  liest  in  thy  lonely  grave 

Among  the  silent  hills  ; 

The  long  gray  grass  thy  woeful  weed, 

Thy  requiem  dropping  rills. 

My  heart  alone  in  all  the  earth 

Thy  tender  memory  thrills. 

"Without  one  parting  lock  or  word, 
Not  even  by  death  distressed, 
AVith  tears  unshed  and  cries  unheard, 
I  saw  thee  seek  thy  rest ; 
Careless  of  all  the  love  and  grief 
That  round  thy  pillow  pressed. 

Behold  !  I  light  my  sparkling  fire, 
The  feast  with  flowers  is  spread ; 
Come,  yield  my  heart  its  one  desire. 
Too  long  its  depths  have  bled. 
Come  back  for  one  forgiving  kiss,  — 
Come  back,  my  precious  dead  ! 

Still,  still  and  sad  the  dark  shuts  down, 
No  fierce  winds  rock  the  tree ; 


ALL  SAINTS'  EVE.  35 

Yet  welcome  night,  and  wind,  and  storm, 
So  I  thy  face  might  see. 
What  spell  of  power  in  earth  or  air 
Shall  bring  it  back  to  me  ? 

By  all  the  strength  of  kindred  blood, 

By  vanished  peace  and  pain, 

By  all  we  shared  of  ill  or  good, 

I  call  thee  back  again ! 

Alas !  thy  sleep  is  still  and  deep, 

My  agony  is  vain. 

In  vain  I  watch,  in  vain  I  wait. 
O  God !  what  mortal  spells 
Can  open  that  relentless  gate 
Where  death's  dread  silence  dwells  ? 
Go  out,  my  fire ;  be  still,  my  heart ; 
Toll  on,  ye  midnight. bells  ! 


A   NEW   VOICE. 


THE  south-wind  blows  a  wakeful  blast, 
The  hot  noon  sunshine  beams  at  last, 
And  something  says,  —  "  the  past  is  past." 

Come,  crocus,  from  the  trodden  clay ! 
Forgotten  there  for  many  a  day, 
Put  on  thy  shining,  gold  array. 

There  is  no  life  for  death  and  pain ; 
There  is  a  new  life  for  the  brain 
That  hears  the  whispers  of  the  rain. 

Dream,  crocus,  in  thy  bed  of  mould ; 
Feel  dimly  for  thy  crown  of  gold ! 
The  fairy-tale  shall  yet  be  told. 

What  if  thy  lips  are  cold  with  fear, 

Thy  white  lids  blanched  with  many  a  tear  ? 

Awake !  an  echo  wandereth  here. 

Awake,  awake !  I  hear  those  calls, 
Soft  as  the  desert  dew  that  falls 
To  stir  the  acacia's  yellow  balls. 


A    NEW    VOICE.  37 

Love,  there  is  love !     For  thee  too,  Spring 
Shall  a  new  promise-anthem  bring ; 
Thou  art  not  a  forgotten  thing. 

The  shadow  of  thy  bridal  veil, 
The  anguish  of  the  nightingale, 
Heaven's  passion-fever,  makes  thee  pale; 

Though  not  about  thy  blue-veined  brows 
They  weave  Sicilian  orange-boughs; 
For  thine  are  all  immortal  vows. 

The  Spirit,  sun-winged  and  divine, 

That  fills  the  earth-veins  full  of  wine, 

And  shoots  to  heaven  the  bacchant  vine, — 

The  Spirit  of  all  growth  and  power, 
Whose  breath  informs  the  sleeping  flower, 
And  speeds  the  Spring's  triumphant  hour,  — 

Creative,  jubilant,  serene, 

Wearing  to  man  a  various  mien, 

Yet  true  as  midnight's  crescent  queen,  — 

Unknown  of  men,  yet  known  to  thee,  — 
Beyond  a  dim  and  dawn-lit  sea, 
That  living  Spirit  stays  for  thee. 

Awake  !  arise  !  thy  wings  begin 

To  stir  their  slumberous  plumes  within  : 

Hark  !  —  hear'st  the  bride-song  stealing  in  ? 


THE    DRAGON. 

ALL  lovely  lies  the  valley, 
Green  and  smooth  and  still, 

A  river  in  its  bosom 

That  takes  its  quiet  will, 

And,  when  the  rain  comes  down  amain, 
Spreads  lake-like  to  the  hill. 

Across  the  sleeping  meadow, 
With  crests  of  flame  and  gold, 

The  mountains  rise  to  meet  the  sky, 
The  woods  lie  fold  on  fold, 

And  shut  my  verdant  valley  in 
Full  late  from  wintry  cold. 

Ah !  fresh  and  velvet  meadow, 

So  full  of  noonday  light ; 
Can  any  trouble  enter  thee, 

Or  any  mad  delight  ? 
Or  aught  unblest  disturb  thy  rest 

Though  tempests  tear  the  night  ? 

Alas !  across  my  valley 

The  dragon's  pathway  lies ; 
I  see  him  in  the  frosty  dawn 

Salute  my  startled  eyes, 
With  flying  plume  of  foamy  white, 

Unfolding  as  he  flies. 


THE    DRAGON.  39 

Through  all  the  tranquil  twilight 

He  shrieks  his  summons  dire ; 
The  sons  of  men  stand  by  aghast 

To  meet  his  eye  of  fire ; 
For  some  men  know  he  bringeth  woer 

And  some  their  heart's  desire. 

Deep  in  the  purple  noon  of  night 

His  fiery  cross  I  see 
Go  kindling  all  the  slumbering  hills 

Whence  sleep  and  silence  flee, 
Till,  snorting  sparks  and  breathing  smoke, 

He  pants  beside  the  sea. 

He  bears  the  dead  man  to  his  dead> 

He  takes  the  blushing  bride, 
The  mother  from  her  crying  babe, 

The  lover  from  his  pride ; 
With  revelry  of  Summer  glee 

Sometimes  he  laugheth  wide. 

Sometimes  his  head  is  decked  with  bloom. 

Sometimes  with  blackest  woe ; 
With  crushed  and  burned  and  bleeding  shapes 

He  runneth  to  and  fro ; 
The  tortured  victims  of  his  sport 

The  spoil  he  layeth  low. 

O  dragon !  what  have  I  to  do 
To  call  thee  evil  names  ? 


40  POEMS. 

I  hold  thee  still  in  grateful  grace, 
For  all  thy  freaks  or  flames ; 

I  call  thee  friend,  unto  mine  end, 
Though  any  other  blames. 

Yea !  though  thou  bring  me  into  death, 

My  soul  records  the  day 
Thou  didst  bring  more  than  life  to  me 

Along  thy  shining  way  ; 
The  shapes  my  sad  heart  fainted  for, 

The  gift  I  dared  not  pray. 

Therefore  my  blessing  go  with  thee    . 

By  mountain  or  by  shore ; 
Like  some  sweet  sound  of  psalm  or  hymn 

I  hear  thy  shrieking  roar ; 
Thy  good  to  me  shall  light  on  thee 

In  praise  forever  more. 


WITHIN. 

OPEN  the  door,  dear  heart,  and  see 

What  lies  beyond  its  lock  and  key : 

Within  the  house,  when  thou  art  come, 

Sit  down  and  rest,  for  here  is  home. 

What  if  it  be  a  little  place  ! 

Its  furnishings  are  gifts  of  grace, 

Not  on  the  wall  or  on  the  floor, 

But  filling  it  for  evermore  ; 

For  here  is  Peace,  with  lilies  white, 

That  shed  their  perfume  day  and  night ; 

In  moon  or  starlight,  storm  or  sun, 

Her  ministry  is  never  done. 

As  in  some  lone  and  quiet  cave, 

Whose  base  eternal  oceans  lave, 

The  castaway  forgets  the  roar 

That  beats  upon  the  cruel  shore, 

And  breathes  alone  the  odorous  breath 

Of  that  wild  sea  that  threatened  death  ;  — 

So  sleep,  while  Peace  keeps  watch  and  ward, 

The  threshold  of  thy  home  to  guard. 

Here  Love  abideth  every  day. 
Wingless,  he  cannot  fly  away. 
The  little  god  we  used  to  know, 
With  stinging  arrows  in  his  bow, 


42  POEMS. 

And  pinions  fluttering  in  the  sun, 
Sulks  out  of  sight,  his  mischief  done. 
For  here  a  calmer  angel  dwells, 
Whose  song  a  sweeter  story  tells ; 
Whose  tender  lips  can  smile  or  sigh 
As  cloud  or  sunshine  wanders  by. 
If  guilt  or  sorrow,  want  or  shame, 
Assail  thy  life  or  dim  thy  name, 
Here  all  these  troubles  are  unknown, 
For  here  remaineth  Love  alone, 
Intent  to  rescue  and  to  bless 
In  every  tempest  of  distress. 
Awake  to  hear  thy  faintest  sigh, 
To  watch  the  tell-tale  in  thine  eye, 
To  fold  thee  safe  in  such  repose 
As  only  Love's  beloved  knows ; 
To  die  —  ah,  far  more  dread !  to  live, 
So  long  as  life  can  blessing  give. 

Here  Patience,  like  a  Quaker  maid, 
Sits  in  her  sober  garb  arrayed. 
Where  she  abides  no  bitter  word, 
No  cold  and  cruel  taunt  is  heard : 
The  soft  lips  utter  softer  speech, 
Her  voice  the  troubled  soul  can  reach, 
And  feed  its  hunger  fierce  and  wild, 
As  some  sweet  mother  feeds  her  child. 
The  hurried  misery  of  to-day 
With  slow  caress  she  charms  away ; 


WITHIN.  43 

The  dread  of  what  to-morrow  brings 

She  hushes  under  brooding  wings ; 

Her  silent  prayer,  like  fragrant  balm, 

On  fevered  spirits  pours  its  calm ; 

Her  lingering  kisses  still  the  brain, 

And  bring  its  vernal  strength  again. 

A  daily  blessing,  like  the  air 

That  comes  without  our  thought  or  prayer. 

Rest !  while  her  gracious  dews  shall  shed 

Their  benediction  on  thy  head. 

Not  every  palace  holds  the  three 
That  keep  thy  quiet  home  for  thee ; 
Not  every  hut  or  humble  cell 
Affords  a  place  for  these  to  dwell. 
In  sadness  long  they  slowly  grew 
Like  plants  of  rosemary  and  rue, 
Those  herbs  of  grace  that  know  no  bloom, 
But  flourish  oftenest  by  a  tomb. 
But  if  they  come  to  live  with  thee, 
Dear  heart,  entreat  them  tenderly ! 
Affright  them  not  with  faithlessness, 
Thy  worldly  longings  all  repress, 
Pine  not  for  power  nor  treasures  more, 
Nor  yet  an  adverse  fate  deplore  : 
For  he  to  whom  the  Lord  hath  lent 
These  visitants  must  have  content, 
The  clasping  grace  to  hold  them  fast 
'Gainst  any  outer  tempest  blast; 


44  POEMS. 

Nor  entertain  as  unaware 
The  angels  who  his  dwelling  share. 
Make  such  a  gracious  atmosphere, 
That  all  thy  guests  shall  linger  here, 
Till  to  thy  house  at  length  shall  come 
The  message  of  a  dearer  home, 
And  summon  thee  with  this  sweet  word, 
"  Come  in,  thou  blessed  of  the  Lord !" 


BELL-SONGS. 
I. 

"  Funera  plango." 

TOLL,  toll,  toll !  soar,  thou  passing  bell, 

Over  meadows  green  and  quiet, 

Over  towns  where  life  runs  riot ; 

Do  thine  errand  well ! 

Sing  thy  message,  sad  and  calm, 

Cold  and  holy  as  a  psalm, 

Hush  us  with  thy  knell ! 

Toll,  toll,  toll !  over  wind  and  wave : 
Through  the  sunshine's  sudden  fading, 
Through  the  pine-tree's  voice  upraiding, 
Where  the  wild  seas  rave. 


BELL-SONGS.  45 

Snow-drifts  for  the  Summer  wait ; 
Slumber  for  the  desolate  ; 
Silence  in  the  grave. 

Toll,  toll,  toll !  through  the  quivering  sky ; 

Chime  thy  song  of  wintry  weather ; 

Cruel,  through  this  rapturous  ether, 

Call  the  bride  to  die. 

Chill,  with  thy  relentless  tongue, 

Eyes  that  smiled  and  lips  that  sung ; 

Bid  delight  good-bye. 

Toll,  toll,  toll !  heaven  is  in  the  sound ! 

Sad  alone  to  souls  unready. 

They  whose  lamps  were  trimmed  and  steady 

Christ  rejoicing  found. 

On  thy  rolling  waves  of  tone 

Float  I  to  the  Master's  throne. 

Life  and  love  abound. 


BELL-SONGS. 
II. 

"  Fulgora  frango." 

SWINGING  slowly  through  the  thunder 
Thrill  the  vivid  bolts  asunder, 

Make  the  storm-wind  quail. 
Hurl  thy  challenge,  stern  defender, 
Fierce  against  the  tempest's  splendor, 

Past  the  hissing  hail. 

Leaping  through  affrighted  heaven, 
Swift  the  wrathful  flames  are  driven, 

Flashing  death  and  fear. 
Speak,  thou  bell !  with  sullen  clangor 
Overcry  the  tempest's  anger, 

Force  the  storm  to  hear. 

Unrelenting,  burning,  streaming, 
Red  o'er  livid  oceans  gleaming, 

Lightnings  rend  the  sky. 
Break  the  thunder's  fearful  chorus, 
Lift  thy  peal  of  triumph  o'er  us, 

Floating  strong  and  high. 


BELL-SONGS  47 


Tell  the  soul  thy  signal  story, 
How  its  own  inherent  glory 

Nature's  might  shall  quell. 
Ring  a  paean  for  the  spirit 
Fire  nor  flood  shall  disinherit. 

Praise  thy  makers,  bell ! 


BELL-SONGS, 
in. 

"  Sabbata  pango." 

CALMLY  dawns  the  golden  day, 
Over  mountains  pale  and  gray. 
Man,  forsake  thy  sleep  and  pray, 
Come,  come,  come ! 

Swinging  through  the  silent  air, 
Lo  !  the  call  itself  is  prayer. 
Fence  thy  soul  from  sin  and  care. 
Come,  come,  come ! 

Like  a  dream,  serene  and  slow, 
Through  the  dawn's  aerial  glow, 
Hear  the  restful  cadence  flow : 
Come,  come,  come ! 


POEMS. 

Think  that  in  my  pleading  tongue, 
Through  the  dewy  branches  swung, 
Christ  himself  this  word  hath  sung : 
Come,  come,  come ! 

Toil  and  battle  rest  in  peace, 
In  the  holy  light's  increase, 
Weary  heart,  frorrr  labor  cease ; 
Come,  come,  come ! 

Lo !  up-rising  from  the  dead, 
God's  own  glory  on  His  head, 
His  pure  lips  thy  prayers  have  sped. 
Come,  come,  come ! 


THE    ICONOCLAST. 

A  THOUSAND  years  shall  come  and  go, 
A  thousand  years  of  night  and  day, 

And  man,  through  all  their  changing  show, 
His  tragic  drama  still  shall  play. 

Ruled  by  some  fond  ideal's  power, 
Cheated  by  passion  or  despair, 

Still  shall  he  waste  life's  trembling  hour, 
In  worship  vain,  and  useless  prayer. 


THE    ICONOCLAST.  49 

Ah !  where  are  they  who  rose  in  might, 
Who  fired  the  temple  and  the  shrine, 

And  hurled,  through  earth's  chaotic  night, 
The  helpless  gods  it  deemed  divine  ? 

Cease,  longing  soul,  thy  vain  desire ! 

What  idol,  in  its  stainless  prime, 
But  falls,  untouched' of  axe  or  fire, 

Before  the  steady  eyes  of  Time. 

He  looks,  and  lo !  our  altars  fall, 

The  shrine  reveals  its  gilded  clay, 
With  decent  hands  we  spread  the  pall, 

And,  cold  with  wisdom,  glide  away. 

Oh !  where  were  courage,  faith,  and  truth, 
If  man  went  wandering  all  his  day 

In  golden  clouds  of  love  and  youth, 
Nor  knew  that  both  his  steps  betray  ? 

Come,  Time,  while  here  we  sit  and  wait, 

Be  faithful,  spoiler,  to  thy  trust! 
No  death  can  further  desolate 

The  soul  that  knows  its  god  was  dust. 


"ALL  THY  WORKS  PRAISE  THEE." 


I  HEAR  the  distant  city-bells 

Clang  their  loud  summons  to  Thy  throne, 
Along  the  wind  their  music  swells, 

And  I  am  here  —  alone. 

The  glory  of  Thy  faithful  Spring 

Makes  for  my  heart  an  ardent  prayer, 

And  for  my  psalm  of  fervor  sing 
The  choristers  of  air. 

If  any  sermonist  they  need 

Who  read  Thy  word  with  faithful  eyes, 
Expositors  my  spirit  feed, 

Inspired  from  earth  and  skies. 

The  life  that  pours  through  nature's  veins 

Its  visible  and  genial  tide, 
Thy  tender  robing  of  the  plains, 

The  forest's  stately  pride ; 

The  blossom  only  known  to  Thee, 
A  silent  smile  that  gleams  and  dies. 

The  labor-anthem  of  the  bee, 
Whose  rest  in  duty  lies ; 


A    COMPLAINT.  51 

The  solemn  chorus  of  the  wind 

That  breathes  thy  power's  triumphant  tone,  — 
All  frame  Thy  temple  in  my  mind ; 

I  am  not  here  alone  1 


A   COMPLAINT. 


A  HOT  noon  filled  the  Autumn  sky 
So  still,  the  pines  forgot  to  sigh, 
But  breathed  out  odors  graciously 

Along  the  slumbering  air  : 
Sweet  scents  of  harvest-gathered  grain, 
And  heavy  fruit  that  wasps  profane, 
With  dead  leaves  drying  on  the  plain, 

Made  silence  soft  and  rare. 

There,  underneath  an  evergreen, 
Whose  boughs  against  a  hill-side  lean, 
I  lingered,  wrapt  in  thoughts  serene, 

Half  bordering  on  sleep. 
When  gently  on  mine  idleness 
Stole  a  low  murmur,  not  distress, 
But  monotoned  to  plaintiveness, 

Nor  sad  enough  to  weep. 


52  POEiMS. 

And  without  thought  I  had  a  sense 
Of  flowers  that  live  in  innocence, 
Set  in  the  desert's  shadow  dense, 

But  die,  ah  me  !  alone. 
Their  pale  lips  breathed,  for  perfume,  song; 
Confiding  unto  speech  their  wrong, 
And,  for  that  I  had  loved  them  long. 

To  me  they  made  their  moan. 

A  purple  orchis  by  a  brook 
Began,  —  "I  see  not  from  my  nook 
Aught  but  the  summer  skies,  that  look 

Alike  on  bud  and  flower. 
Now  I  am  fading,  who  will  know, 
With  grief  that  from  the  earth  I  go  ? 
Who  loved  me  ?  still  the  ripples  flow 

And  laugh  from  hour  to  hour." 

Then  a  wild-rose  complains  of  death, 
That  chills  the  sweetness  of  her  breath, 
And  more  that  no  clear  echo  saith 

To  clearer  tones,  —  "  Farewell !" 
And  all  the  blossoms  joined  her  plaint, 
Till  the  first  murmur,  sad  and  faint, 
Made  in  my  ear  a  loud  complaint, 

Yet  sweet  as  chimes  a  bell. 

Then  I  made  answer,  —  "  Beauty  grows 
For  beauty's  sake,  though  no  man  knows- 
The  hidden  place  of  its  repose, 
It  is  not  vain  nor  waste. 


JUSTICE.  53  . 

Dear  flowers,  for  you  the  wild-birds  sing, 
Shy  fawns  behold  your  .blossoming, 
And  poets,  dreaming,  at  your  spring 
Of  visioned  sweetness  taste. 

<l  And  Love  that  bent  the  arching  sky 
Your  fair  creations  satisfy." 
Then,  sliding" into  daylight,  I 

Turned  my  awakened  eyes, 
And  lo  !  the  voice  was  silent,  flowers 
Stood  round  me  smiling  as  the  hours, 
Content  enough  with  sun  and  showers, 

Who  mocked  me  with  their  cries  ? 


JUSTICE. 

NOVEMBER    22,    1873. 

WHY,  who  is  this  comes  down  the  street 
With  flashing  eyes  and  flaming  sword; 

With  shoes  of  swiftness  on  her  feet, 
And  on  her  lips  a  swifter  word  ? 

The  balance  in  her  hand  she  bears 
Is  swayed  no  more  by  every  wind , 

The  bandage  from  her  eyes  she  tears, 
For  Justice  is  no  longer  blind. 


54  POEMS. 

"  Listen,"  she  cries,  "  ye  sons  of  men  ! 

Too  long  I  stood  upon  your  towers, 
While  you,  too  far  beneath  my  ken, 
Defied  and  mocked  my  awful  powers. 

"  Now  here  I  come  to  see  and  slay ; 

I  come  to  hold  the  sword  of  might, 
To  make  for  truth  a  level  sway, 

To  trample  wrong  and  succor  right. 

"  The  fillet  of  my  slavery 

I  tread  beneath  my  steady  feet : 

'Tis  time  that  Justice  learned  to  see ; 

'Tis  time  I  stood  on  every  street. 

"  Cringe  as  ye  will,  ye  fawning  poor, 

And  fawning  rich,  on  either  hand; 

My  glance  is  keen,  my  stroke  is  sure ; 

I  come  to  rule  the  seething  land !" 

Ah,  friend,  so  long  to  man  denied, 
Prolong  thy  reign,  forever  stay  ! 

Fear  not  the  crowd  on  every  side 

That  hate  or  dread  thy  righteous  sway. 

If  earth  be  not  thy  dwelling-place, 
Yet  strive  to  tarry  here  a  while, 

And  smite  this  foul  and  evil  race 

With  the  stern  splendor  of  thy  smile ! 


TO-NIGHT.  55 

Sweep  clean  the  land  on  every  hand ; 
Its  reeking  millions  die  for  thee  !  — 
She  turned  on  mine  her  eyes  divine : 
"  Canst  thou  abide  my  victory  ?" 


TO-NIGHT. 


THROUGH  level  fields  of  silent  snow, 

Through  all  the  darkening  eve, 
Where  black  and  sullen  rivers  flow, 
Through  banks  of  drifted  white  below, 
And  idly  fret  or  grieve ; 

Where  crowding  woods  on  either  hand 

Leafless  and  vague  and  gray, 
The  saddest  ghosts  of  summer  stand, 
And  shadow  all  the  frozen  land 
About  our  onward  way ; 

Where  everlasting  fortresses 

Hang  high  above  the  path, 
Grim  wardens  of  the  wilderness 
With  summits  as  barren  as  distress 
And  pitiless  as  wrath. 


56  POEMS. 

With  glare  and  gleam  on  rock  and  tree, 

With  clatter  and  with  roar, 
In  curdling  mists  a  mystery 
A  dragon  creature  dread  to  see, 
We  speed  from  shore  to  shore. 

A  shriek,  a  clashing,  now  we  pause, 

A  hurry  and  a  light ; 
Far  off  the  village  street  withdraws, 
And  still  as  God's  eternal  laws 

Shuts  down  the  dreary  night. 

Oh !  weary  eye,  look  out  no  more ! 

Thou  canst  not  see  the  pane, 
With  little  faces  smiling  o'er 
The  snow-lit  waste ;  thy  heart  is  sore, 

Thy  soul  is  torn  in  vain. 

Go  home,  and  hide  thy  wasted  tears, 

Conceal  thy  mortal  grief; 
Go,  stifle  all  thy  hopes  and  fears, 
Crush  out  the  lingering  love  of  years, 
Thank  God  that  life  is  brief. 

Rekindle  in  thy  fainting  breast 
Its  courage  and  its  pride, 

Be  every  coward  pang  repressed, 

Bear  all  thou  canst,  forget  the  rest. 

Is  slaying  or  is  suffering  best  ? 
The  dead  not  all  have  died. 


57 


SEMELE. 


"  For  there  bee  none  of  those  pagan  fables  in  whiche  there  lyeth 
not  a  more  subtle  meanynge  than  the  extern  expression  thereof 
should  att  once  signifye." — Marriages  of  ye  Deade. 


SPIRIT  of  light  divine ! 

Quick  breath  of  power, 
Breathe  on  these  lips  of  mine, 
Persuade  the  bud  to  flower; 

Cleave   thy  dull   swathe   of  cloud !   no   longer   waits 
the  hour. 

Exulting,  rapturous  flame, 

Dispel  the  night ! 
I  dare  not  breathe  thy  name, 

I  tremble  at  thy  light, 

Yet  come  !    in  fatal  strength,  —  come,  in  all  matchless 
might. 

Burn,  as  the  leaping  fire 

A  martyr's  shroud  ; 
Burn,  like  an  Indian  pyre, 

With  music  fierce  and  loud. 

Come,  Power !  Love  calls  thee,  —  come,  with  all  the 
god  endowed  ! 


$8  POEMS. 

Immortal  life  in  death, 
On  these  rapt  eyes, 
On  this  quick,  failing  breath, 

In  dread  and  glory  rise. 

The   altar  waits   thy  torch,  —  come,  touch  the   sacri 
fice! 

Come !  not  with  gifts  of  life, 

Not  for  my  good ; 
My  soul  hath  kept  her  strife 

In  fear  and  solitude ; 

More   blest    the    inverted    torch,    the   horror-curdled 
blood. 

Better  in  light  to  die 

Than  silent  live; 
Rend  from  these  lips  one  cry, 

One  death-born  utterance  give, 

Then,   clay,   in   fire    depart !     then,    soul    in   heaven 
survive ! 


59 


AN    ANSWER. 

You  ask  me  if  I  love  you  still 
With  such"  a  fervor  and  good  will 
As  clung  to  you  in  years  before. 
My  little  saint !  I  love  you  more. 

You  light  your  candle  at  the  flame 

That  warms  your  hearth  —  'tis  still  the  same, 

A  thousand  tapers  share  its  light, 

But  leave  the  radiance  just  as  bright. 

For  love  with  loving  is  not  spent, 
Not  such  is  love's  divine  intent ; 
What  year  on  year  the  sun  shall  dim ; 
What  worship  tire  the  seraphim  ? 

Like  some  sweet  bloomless  plant  that  grows 
Beside  the  red  and  lavish  rose, 
That  sees  those  blossoms  blaze  and  die, 
Brief  darlings  of  the  summer  sky, 

But  holds  its  own  most  odorous  leaves 
To  every  hand  that  plucks  their  sheaves, 
And  where  one  branch  for  guerdon  goes 
Another  and  another  grows ; 


60  POEMS. 

So,  darling,  though  my  heart  be  filled 
With  newer  love,  it  is  not  stilled, 
But  daily  prays  for  daily  bread, 
Forever  hungering,  ever  fed. 

As  in  the  dew-drop  stars  may  shine, 
So  love  itself,  august,  divine, 
Kindles  our  finite  lives  with  fire 
That  can  not  smoulder  nor  expire ; 

Elates  our  souls  with  boundless  strength. 
Till  loves  are  lost  in  Love  at  length, 
Our  mortal  lights  grow  far  and  dim 
And  love  and  loving  merge  in  Him. 


"THOU    SHALT   NOT    KILL." 


ALAS,  what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ? 
A  shot  had  been  more  merciful ; 
A  plunge  in  some  deep  silent  pool 
That  let  my  life  out  peacefully. 
Then  had  I  slept  'neath  wave  or  sod, 
And  my  clean  soul  gone  up  to  God. 


"THOU    SHALT    NOT    KILL."  6 1 

Or  had  thy  steel  been  bright  and  keen 
To  let  the  red  blood  have  its  way, 
No  more  with  throbbing  pant  or  play, 
To  fill  the  founts  of  life  unseen. 
Or  some  sharp  draught,  that  giveth  rest 
Forever  to  the  weary  breast. 

Alas !  thou  hast  done  this  to  me : 
Made  black  the  sunshine  and  sweet  air 
With  creeping  doubt  and  hateful  care, 
Taught  my  poor  eyes  the  dark  to  see, 
Swept  from  my  sight  the  true  and  just; 
Turned  all  my  faith  to  cold  distrust. 

To  live  without  and  die  within, 
The  living  flesh,  the  murdered  heart : 
Were  death  or  this  the  better  part  — 
For  thee  or  me  the  deadlier  sin  ? 
When  love  itself  no  more  believes, 
But  o'er  its  loving  doubts  and  grieves. 

I  fear  no  mad  assassin's  hand; 
The  clay  he  crumbles  to  the  grave, 
Its  mightier  Maker's  power  shall  save, 
Again  before  His  face  to  stand ; 
But  ah  !  what  fears  beyond  control 
Haunt  their  dread  steps  who  slay  the  soul. 


62  POEMS. 

Yet  go  thy  way,  as  I  do  mine. 
No  man  shall  hurt  thee,  here  or  there, 
Still  on  thy  forehead  shalt  thou  wear 
The  fair  protecting  smile  and  sign : 
For  God  reserves  His  right  to  thee, 
And  what  has  man  to  offer  me  ? 


DECORATION    DAY. 


THE  last  sad  note  has  passed  away, 
The  bugle's  moan  in  distance  dies ; 

Alone  the  wailing  wind  of  May 
Amid  her  tender  verdure  sighs. 

Where  here  and  there  the  banners  wave, 
A  little  heap  of  fading  flowers 

Bedecks  some  valiant  soldier's  grave. 
Already  greened  with  sun  and  showers. 

As  well  they  sleep  through  wintry  snows 
As  through  the  summer's  fragrant  morn  ; 

Their  hands  have  picked  the  only  rose 
That  grows  on  earth  without  a  thorn. 


SEGOVIA    AND    MADRID.  63 

But  we  who  still  in  wars  abide, 

Who  lose  their  strength  and  weep  their  loss, 
Assuage  our  grief  and  vaunt  our  pride 

With  floral  wreath  and  blooming  cross. 

One  tale  they  tell  of  sharp  regret 

Of  faithful  memory,  fond  despair, 
Of  eyes  with  tears  still  streaming  wet, 

And  agonies  of  lonely  prayer. 

Is  war  then  worth  the  woe  it  brings, 
The  broken  heart,  the  blossomed  grave  ? 

Ah  !  high  in  heaven  above  me  rings 
The  shout  of  freedom  —  from  a  slave. 


SEGOVIA    AND    MADRID. 


IT  sings  to  me  in  sunshine, 
It  whispers  all  day  long, 
My  heart-ache  like  an  echo 
Repeats  the  wistful  song : 
Only  a  quaint  old  love-lilt, 
Wherein  my  life  is  hid.  — 
"  My  body  is  in  Segovia, 
But  my  soul  is  in  Madrid !" 


64  TOEMS. 


I  dream,  and  wake,  and  wonder, 
For  dream  and  day  are  one. 
Alight  with  vanished  faces, 
And  days  forever  done. 
They  smile  and  shine  around  me 
As  long  ago  they  did. 
For  my  body  is  in  Segovia 
But  my  soul  is  in  Madrid ! 

Through  inland  hills  and  forests 
I  hear  the  ocean  breeze, 
The  creak  of  straining  cordage, 
The  rush  of  mighty  seas, 
The  lift  of  angry  billows 
Through  which  a  swift  keel  slid ; 
For  my  body  is  in  Segovia 
But  my  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Oh  fair-haired  little  darlings 
Who  bore  my  heart  away ! 
A  wide  and  woful  ocean, 
Between  us  roars  to-day ; 
Yet  am  I  close  beside  you 
Though  time  and  space  forbid; 
My  body  is  in  Segovia 
But  my  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

If  I  were  once  in  heaven, 
There  would  be  no  more  sea; 
My  heart  would  cease  to  wander, 
My  sorrows  cease  to  be ; 


THE    RIVER.  65 

My  sad  eyes  sleep  forever, 

In  dust  and  daisies  hid, 

And  my  body  leave  Segovia. 

—  Would  my  soul  forget  Madrid  ? 


THE    RIVER. 


THE  river  flows  and  flows  away, 

A  lonely  stream  through  forests  gray, 

No  rippled  rapids  o'er  it  play ; 

Forever  and  forever. 
As  silent  as  a  winter's  night, 
With  purple  heavens  all  alight, 
And  planets  shining  strangely  bright ; 

So  quiet  is  the  river. 

No  fount  nor  fall  the  vision  finds, 

And  in  no  devious  course  it  winds, 

But  straight  from  where  the  sunset  shines, 

Forever  and  forever. 
A  mystery  of  shade  and  gleam, 
O'er  hidden  rocks  glides  on  the  stream, 
Like  sleep  above  a  fearful  dream ; 

So  quiet  is  the  river. 

5 


66  POEMS. 

It  streams  pure  silver  in  the  sun, 
Slow,  sullen  lead,  with  storms  begun, 
And  golden  green  when  day  is  done, 

Forever  and  forever. 
A  flow  of  pearl  in  moonlight  cold, 
With  moonless  midnight  onward  rolled, 
Blacker  than  Lethe  streamed  of  old. 

So  quiet  is  the  river. 

Oh,  water !  by  thy  waves  serene, 
As  tranquil  hours  a  life  hath  seen, 
No  more  to  be  as  they  have  been, 

Forever  and  forever. 
For  underneath  its  restless  flow, 
Too  black  for  light's  full  noon  to  show, 
Lie  broken  rocks  no  mortals  know. 

So  quiet  is  the  river. 


THANKSGIVING. 
I. 

LORD  !    put  a  new  song  in  my  lips, 

A  song  that  fits  to-day  ; 
Not  like  the  river's  rushing  chant 

Upon  its  seaward  way, 
Nor  like  the  anthem  of  the  winds, 

Nor  ocean's  desperate  spray. 


THANKSGIVING.  67 

But  most  like  some  slight,  wandering  brook, 

That,  dropping  from  the  hills, 
Can  no  more  shun  the  nearing  grave 

Than  all  its  kindred  rills, 
And  yet  its  weary,  wistful  tone 

The  autumn  silence  thrills. 

I  cannot  thank  Thee  for  my  sin, 

Nor  for  my  sorrows  yet ; 
The  pain  and  fear  and  loss  of  lifev 

I  cannot  but  regret. 
The  loss  of  faith,  the  death  of  love. 

Ah  !    how  can  I  forget  ? 

To  trust  no  more,  to  love  no  more 

Are  lessons  hard  to  learn. 
The  martyr  to  his  stake  may  cling ; 

But  is  it  sweet  to  burn  ? 
Dear  Lord !    I  thank  Thee  that  my  life 

Can  never  more  return. 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  present  calm, 

The  quiet  of  the  hour, 
The  silent  rest  of  waiting  days, 

That  know  not  leaf  nor  flower; 
For  every  moment  when  the  past 

Lets  loose  its  grasp  of  power ; 

For  every  charm  of  outer  life 
That  soothes  my  wearied  heart ; 


68  POEMS. 

For  sun  and  sky  and  wind  and  wave, 

For  Nature's  better  part ; 
More  for  the  little  lips  and  hands 

So  dear  —  so  far  apart ! 

Most  for  the  spark  of  Faith  in  Thee 

Man  hath  not  blown  away, 
That  yet  may  quicken  into  light 

And  blaze  to  perfect  day, 
Till  wasted  love  and  wasted  life 

Are  dreams  that  dare  not  stay. 
Yet  most  for  Thy  great  patience,  Lord, 

I  give  Thee  thanks  to-day. 


EN    ESPAGNE. 


I  BUILT  a  Palace,  white  and  high, 
With  sweeping  purple  tapestried ; 
No  dusty  highway  ran  thereby, 
But  guarded  alleys  to  it  led ; 
And  shaven  lawns  about  were  spread, 
Where  bird  and  moth  danced  daintily. 


EN    ESPAGNE.  69 

So  gracious  were  its  portals  wide, 
So  light  and  fair  the  turrets  stood, 
No  flaw  mine  eager  eye  espied, 
I  fashioned  it,  and  called  it  good ; 
And  lavished  on  its  solitude 
All  garnishings  of  pomp  and  pride. 

That  was  in  golden  summer-time ;  — 
The  winter-wind  is  howling  now, 
My  Palace  has  passed  out  of  time,  — 
The  sward  is  only  sheeted  snow, 
Its  hangings  with  the  dead  leaves  blow : 
There  comes  an  end  to  mortal  prime. 

And  I,  who  laid  it  stone  by  stone, 
Stone  after  stone  do  take  it  down. 
What  if  a  king,  whose  state  had  flown, 
Should  pull  apart  his  regal  crown  ? 
For  kingly  hearts  no  fate  can  frown, 
They  rule  forever  o'er  their  own. 


7o 


A    FLOWER    BALLAD. 


THE  flowers  are  idle  and  full  of  thought, 

The  wind  hears  what  they  say  ; 
And  their  sweetest  whispers  the  bees  have  taught, 

Stealing  their  hearts  away. 

The  dreamer  who  lies  in  the  forest  shade, 

In  the  clasp  of  day  and  night, 
With  the  lips  of  sleep  on  his  eyelids  laid, 

May  hear  their  laughter  light. 

And  I,  who  love  and  am  loved  of  flowers, 

Lay  in  an  eve  of  June, 
In  the  fragrant  silence  of  twilight  hours, 

Hearing  them  sing  to  the  moon. 

First  came  the  rose's  languid  sigh, 

Out  of  her  crimson  breast ; 
Softly  she  murmured,  "  Oh  !  sweet  am  I, 
"  And  the  gold-moth  loves  me  best !" 

"  I  rock  the  dews  in  my  heart  of  fire, 

"  'Till  they  ride  on  the  noontide  ray, 
"  And  carry  my  kisses  higher  and  higher, 

"  Up  to  the  Lord  of  Day." 


A    FLOWER    BALLAD. 

The  lily  sang  like  a  river's  sound  — 
"  I  am  the  morning's  queen, 
"  With  its  golden  stars  on  my  forehead  bound, 
"  Its  mantle  ot"  snow  serene. 

"  The  wild  winds  blow,  the  wild  bees  go, 
"  In  vain  are  their  songs  and  prayers, 

"  They  cannot  soften  my  bosom's  snow, 
"Or  kindle  my  heart  at  theirs!" 

The  violet,  softer  than  love-lit  eyes, 
Whispered  a  hymn  to  the  grass, 

But  its  first  word  ever  was  lost  in  sighs, 
And  its  last  word  was  "  Alas !" 

Star-set  blossoms  of  rock  and  shade, 

Wild  rose  and  columbine, 
Harebells  tiny  and  half  afraid, 

Sprays  of  the  blood-flushed  vine. 

Brown,  and  scarlet,  and  river-blue, 
They  mingled  their  drops  like  rain, 

Singing  and  tinkling  the  drops  of  dew 
They  never  could  gather  again. 

Out  of  the  South  a  calmer  voice 
Came  on  the  wandering  windr 
"  Darlings  of  summer  and  sun,  rejoice, 
"  Dream  not  of  storms  unkind. 


72  POEMS. 

"  Sleep  in  snow-drifts,  to  wake  in  spring, 
"  Bud  and  blossom  once  more, 

"  Other  roses  shall  summer  bring, 
"  Fresh  as  she  brought  before. 

"  Mine  is  a  deeper  and  sadder  doom   - 

"  The  crested  aloe  am  I, 
"  I  lavish  life  for  a  day  of  bloom, 

"  And  after  blossoming,  die."  - 


OCTOBER. 

Rest !  rest !  shall  I  not  have  all  Eternity  to  rest  in  ?" —  ARNAULD. 

THERE  comes  a  time  of  rest  to  thee, 
Whose  laden  boughs  droop  heavily 
Toward  earth,  thou  golden-fruited  tree  ! 

A  time  when  wind  and  tempest  cease 
To  spoil  and  stain  thy  fair  increase  : 
After  fruition  deepest  peace. 

The  tender  bloom  that  decked  thee,  bride, 
The  jewels  of  thy  matron  pride, 
And  purple  robes,  —  all  laid  aside. 


OCTOBER.  73 

The  slow,  red  sunshine,  o'er  thee  cast, 
In  sweet,  sad  kisses  for  thy  last, 
And  shadow-haunted  from  the  past. 

Green,  leafy,  quiet,  freed  from  care, 
No  heavier  weight  thy  lithe  limbs  bear 
Than  dripping  rain  and  sunny  air. 

But  unto  man's  diviner  sense 
The  strenuous  rest  of  penitence 
Remaineth  only  for  defence. 

His  fruit  drops  slowly  from  his  hands, 

But  only  with  the  dropping  sands 

That  fall  on  Time's  slow-gathering  strands. 

The  sower  in  this  mortal  field 

Shall  reap  no  harvest's  gracious  yield, 

The  warrior  conquers  —  on  his  shield. 

But  after  life  and  fruit  and  rest, 
Thou,  tree  !  by  dust  shall  be  possessed  ; 
To  him  remains  a  day  more  blest, 

A  newer  hope,  a  summer-time 
Renewed  forever  in  its  prime, 
Where  God,  his  harvest,  sits  sublime. 


74 


LOSS   AND    GAIN. 


HOPE  went  singing  southward, 
And  left  me  silent  here; 
I  did  not  scorn  nor  sorrow, 
I  had  no  smile  nor  tear; 
For  out  of  the  door  beside  her, 
Went  her  serving-maiden,  Fear. 

Where  there  comes  no  morning, 
There  never  is  any  night; 
The  clouds  will  fly  from  heaveu 
When  the  sun  shall  lose  its  light; 
And  he  who  wants  the  pleasure 
\Vants  the  pain  of  sight. 

Rain  and  rainbow  vanish, 

But  the  sky  is  undismayed; 

Hope  and  fear  may  leave  us, 

And  the  price  of  life  be  paid ; 

Greater  than  any  passion 

Is  the  soul  that  God  hath  made. 

Go !  walk  the  world  together, 
And  trouble  the  hearts  of  men ; 


"  NON     FIT."  75 

Go  paint  and  pluck  the  blossoms 
That  never  shall  bloom  again; 
But  dread  the  day  of  Heaven : 
Ye  both  shall  perish  then ! 


"NON    FIT." 


THE  poet's  thoughts  are  full  of  might, 
Elate  with  glory  and  delight ; 
New  tints  are  in  his  heavens  spread; 
On  odors  keen  his  sense  is  fed, 
And  strains  accordant  angels  sing ; 
Through  all  his  sleep  their  echoes  ring. 

The  poet  has  a  lonely  soul ; 
He  hears  the  seas  in  thunder  roll, 
Perceives  the  rapture  of  the  rose, 
And  every  tone  of  Nature  knows ; 
But  cannot  speak  the  tongue  of  men, 
Or  give  their  greetings  back  again. 

His  eyes  alight  with  love  intense, 
His  face  all  calm  with  innocence; 


76  POEMS. 

The  green  leaves  kigs  his  waving  hair, 
The  wild-birds  sing  him  carols  rare, 
Intent  to  celebrate  and  bless ; 
His  Eden  fills  the  wilderness. 

But  all  his  songs  are  minor-keyed ; 
His  prayers  are  less  to  praise  than  plead. 
His  smiles  are  full  of  grief  asleep, 
His  heart  like  ocean's  bitter  deep ; 
For  tears  and  laughter,  hand  in  hand, 
About  his  vibrant  nature  stand. 

At  this  the  world  admiring  gaze, 
And  think  they  feed  his  soul  with  praise ; 
But  whisper  in  a  loud  aside, 
"  Is  this  your  poet's  vaunted  pride  ? 
Why,  better  be  the  common  clay 
Than  thus  'twixt  heaven  and  hell  astray." 

But  he,  respiring  sudden  fire, 
Hears  and  replies  in  righteous  ire, 
"  Better  to  sound  the  depths  of  hell, 
If  thence  to  heaven  our  praises  swell ; 
Nobler  than  life,  or  love,  to  die 
Transfixed  with  immortality !" 


77 


ASLEEP. 

"  So  He  giveth  to  His  beloved  in  sleep." 

— Psalm  127:2,  (Trench's  version). 

LORD  I  will  not  strive  nor  cry ; 
At  Thy  feet  in  peace  I  lie; 
Vain  is  fear  and  trouble  vain ; 
Let  me  never  more  complain ; 
Vexed  no  more  to  sow  or  reap, 
Since  Thou  giv'st  me  gifts  in  sleep. 

Let  the  world  pass  by  unknown ; 
Care  is  dead  and  sorrow  flown ; 
On  His  garments'  outer  fold 
I  have  all  my  burdens  rolled  : 
I  will  sleep,  for  God  shall  be 
Even  in  slumber  blessing  me. 

Happy  angels !  evermore 
Singing  praises  o'er  and  o'er; 
I,  your  Master's  happier  child, 
Am  of  every  grief  beguiled. 
Though  I  dream,  no  more  I  weepj 
God  doth  give  me  gifts  in  sleep. 


78  POEMS. 


Earth  may  rage  and  nations  toil ; 
Man  may  work  with  vain  turmoil, 
While  my  Father's  gracious  heart 
Holds  me  sheltered  far  apart : 
Safe,  for  He  doth  bless  and  keep 
His  beloved  in  their  sleep. 

As  a  callow  bird  may  rest 
Singing  softly  in  its  nest : 
As  a  baby  kept  from  harm 
In  its  mother's  folding  arm, 
So  I  rest,  secure  with  Thee ; 
Even  in  sleep  Thou  blessest  me. 


UNRETURNING. 

THREE  things  never  come  again. 
Snow  may  vanish  from  the  plain, 
Blossoms  from  the  dewy  sod, 
Verdure  from  the  broken  clod, 
Water  from  the  river's  bed, 
Forests  from  the  mountain's  head. 
Night  may  brighten  into  day, 
Noon  in  midnight  fade  away ; 


UNRETURNiNG.  79 

Yet  the  snow  shall  come  once  more 
When  the  winter  tempest  roar. 
Blossoms  each  returning  spring 
In  her  laden  arms  shall  bring, 
Grass  be  green  where  ploughshares  run, 
Rivers  flash  in  autumn's  sun, 
Time  shall  bid  the  forests  grow. 
Noon  and  night  both  come  and  go, 
But  though  all  thy  soul  complain, 
Three  things  shall  not  come  again ! 

Never  to  the  bow  that  bends 
Comes  the  arrow  that  it  sends  : 
Spent  in  space^  its  airy  flight 
Vanishes  like  lost  delight. 
When  with  rapid  aim  it  sprang 
From  the  bow-string's  shivering  twang, 
Straight  to  brain  or  heart  it  fled, 
Once  for  all  its  course  was  sped. 
No  wild  wail  upon  its  track 
Brings  the  barb  of  vengeance  back  : 
Hold  thy  hand  before  it  go : 
Pause,  beside  the  bended  bow  : 
Hurtled  once  across  the  plain, 
No  sent  arrow  comes  again ! 

Never  comes  the  chance  that  passed, 
That  one  moment  was  its  last : 
Though  thy  life  upon  it  hung, 
Though  thy  death  beneath  it  swung, 


3o  POEMS. 

If  thy  future  all  the  way 
Now  in  darkness  goes  astray, 
When  the  instant  born  of  Fate 
Passes  through  the  golden  gate, 
When  the  hour,  but  not  the  man, 
Comes  and  goes  from  nature's  plan, 
Never  more  its  countenance 
Beams  upon  thy  slow  advance  : 
Never  more  that  time  shall  be, 
Burden-bearer  unto  thee. 
Weep  and  search  o'er  land  or  main, 
Lost  chance  never  comes  again  ! 

Never  shall  thy  spoken  word 
Be  again  unsaid,  unheard. 
Well  its  work  the  utterance  wrought; 
Woe  or  weal,  whate'er  it  brought: 
Once  for  all  the  rune  is  read 
Once  for  all  the  judgment  said. 
Though  it  pierced  a  poisoned  spear 
,    Through  the  soul  thou  holdest  dear, 
Though  it  quiver,  fierce  and  deep, 
Through  some  stainless  spirit's  sleep ; 
Idle,  vain,  the  flying  sting 
That  a  passing  rage  might  bring, 
Speech  shall  give  it  fangs  of  steel. 
Utterance  all  its  barb  reveal. 

Give  thy  tears  of  blood  and  fire, 
Pray  with  pangs  of  mad  desire, 


MY    LITTLE    DARLING.  8 1 

Offer  life  and  soul  and  all, 
That  one  sentence  to  recall. 
Wrestle  with  its  fatal  wrath, 
Chase  with  flying  feet  its  path. 
Rue  it  all  thy  lingering  days, 
Hide  it  deep  with  love  and  praise. 
Once  for  all  thy  word  is  sped, 
None  evade  it  but  the  dead. 
All  thy  travail  will  be  vain, 
Spoken  words  come  not  again ! 


MY   LITTLE    DARLING. 

ONCE  on  a  time  she  came  to  me, 

As  some  small  star  from  heaven  might  flee; 

To  be  a  mortal's  sole  delight 

A  love  by  day,  a  dream  by  night, 

The  sweetest  thing  on  land  or  sea 

My  little  darling  crept  to  me. 

A  trembling,  tender,  fairy  thing, 
Too  grave  to  smile,  too  shy  to  sing ; 
An  alien  from  her  native  skies, 
Aware  of  earth  with  grieved  surprise ; 
A  baby  angel,  strange  to  see, 
My  little  darling  came  to  me. 

6 


82  POEMS. 

But  love  and  loving  taught  her  smiles, 
And  life  and  living  baby  wiles, 
The  way  to  cling,  to  coax,  to  kiss, 
To  fill  my  soul  with  deepest  bliss. 
My  heart  of  hearts,  my  life  was  she, 
This  little  love  who  came  to  me. 

What  words  she  stammered,  soft  and  low, 
No  other  ear  than  mine  could  know : 
More  gentle  than  a  cooing  dove. 
More  fond  than  any  voice  of  love, 
So  shy,  so  sweet,  so  tenderly 
My  little  darling  spoke  to  me. 

I  know  not  how  to  tell  the  grace 
That  dwelt  upon  her  wistful  face, 
The  tinted  skin,  the  lips'  pure  bloom, 
The  clearest  eyes  that  knew  not  gloom, 
The  hair  as  soft  as  moth  wings  be, 
My  little  darling  showed  to  me. 

Alas !  I  know  that  all  is  gone. 
That  here  I  sit  and  grieve  alone ; 
That  every  fair  and  gracious  thing 
I  loved  and  lost,  is  but  a  sting ; 
Another  thorn  thy  memory 
My  little  darling,  brings  to  me. 

But  kindly  night  doth  pity  pain  ; 
In  all  my  dreams  she  comes  again : 


VALENTINES FOR    MY    TWO.  83 

Her  precious  head  is  on  my  breast, 
My  happy  arms  caress  her  rest, 
I  hear  her  words  of  tender  glee, 
My  little  darling  kisses  me. 

Ah,  sweet  is  night !  —  too  sweet,  too  brief.  — 

When  day  recalls  our  bitterest  grief: 

The  hungry  heart,  the  longing  dire, 

That  burns  the  soul  with  vain  desire, 

The  ancient  cry  of  wild  distress, 

The  Rachel-mourning  comfortless  : 

Oh  God,  that  face  once  more  to  see ! 

My  little  darling,  come  to  me ! 


VALENTINES  — FOR   MY   TWO. 

FOR    FAY. 

FAIRY  !  Fairy  !  fair  and  fine, 
Will  you  be  my  Valentine  ? 
Little  sprite  of  flame  and  dew, 
Fairy  fingers  fashioned  you  ! 
Spun  their  flax  for  shining  hair, 
Sun-lit  snow  for  forehead  fair ; 


84  POEMS. 


Painted  soft  each  crimson  lip 
With  the  rose-dew  that  they  sip ; 
Set  the  pinkness  of  a  shell 
On  those  rounded  cheeks  to  dwell; 
Drew  from  some  pure  tiny  lake 
Shadows  water-spiders  make, 
Crystal  clear  and  diamond  bright, 
For  those  eyes  of  dauntless  light, 
Tempered  with  a  fairy  tear 
Lest  their  brightness  shine  too  clear; 
And  for  that  sweet  sudden  smiling, 
Every  hardest  heart  beguiling, 
Caught  the  splendor  of  the  sun, 
When  his  day-long  race  is  run, 
And  the  space  'twixt  cloud  and  hills 
All  his  rapid  glory  fills. 
Ah !  my  love,  my  sweet,  my  baby, 
Did  the  fairies  give  thee,  maybe, 
All  these  gifts,  and  add  the  smart 
Of  a  loving  human  heart, 
Lest  so  many  gracious  things 
Should  too  early  give  thee  wings  ? 
Fairy !  Fairy  !  fair  and  fine, 
Be  my  darling  Valentine! 


VALENTINES  —  FOR    MY    TWO.  85 


FOR     BIRDIE. 

I  want  a  Valentine 

Who  will  be  mine  ? 
She  must  have  lips  as  red,  as  red, 
As  strawberries  in  the  garden  bed ; 
She  must  have  eyes  as  blue  and  sweet 
As  speedwell  blossoms  at  her  feet ; 
Two  cheeks  as  soft  as  summer  roses ; 
The  tiniest,  funniest  of  noses ; 
A  chin  as  round  as  apples  are, 
And  dimples  twinkling  like  a  star; 
A  forehead  smooth  and  very  fair, 
With  shining,  shadowy,  tumbled  hair; 
A  look  both  saucy  and  coquettish, 
Sometimes  too  sweet,  sometimes  too  pettish ; 
A  laugh  like  any  bobolink, 
Too  gay  to  scold,  too  glad  to  think : 
A  little,  willful,  mortal  thing, 
That  to  its  sweetheart's  arms  will  spring, 
And  kiss  and  tease  in  equal  measure  — 
Birdie  !  can  this  be  you,  my  treasure  ? 


86 


SAFE. 

[For  A.  W.  B.] 

PALE,  broken  bud,  that  cannot  be  a  rose ! 
On  thee  no  summer  tempest  ever  blows ; 
No  bee  shall  blight  thy  heart,  no  driving  rain 
Thy  tintless  petals  with  its  passion  stain. 
No  sun  shall  burn  thee,  and  no  frost  assail ; 
Safe  shalt  thou  bloom  beyond  the  wintry  gale. 

Dear  lamb !  for  thee  no  stormy  wind  shall  beat, 

No  drifting  snows  beset  thy  tiny  feet, 

No  hunger  rage,  no  thirst,  no  vague  despair 

Vex  thy  sweet  life  in  that  celestial  air. 

For  thee  no  more  are  mortal  hurts  or  harms, 

Safe  folded  in  thy  tender  Shepherd's  arms. 

Birdling,  that  fluttered  at  the  window-pane, 
And  fell  beside  it,  ne'er  to  rise  again ! 
Thy  feeble  wing  has  found  eternal  rest, 
No  terror  pants  within  thy  sleeping  breast ; 
No  human  hand,  no  tyrant  of  the  sky, 
Can  rob  the  nest  where  thy  closed  pinions  lie. 

Sweet  dream  that  lit  upon  thy  mother's  heart 
A  joyful  moment,  pausing  to  depart ; 


THE    PEACE    OF    GOD.  87 

Such  solace  as  in  sleep  He  sometimes  sends 
Who  shapes  our  losses  to  divinest  ends, 
Though  thy  frail  symbol  sleeps  beneath  the  sod, 
We  know  thy  waking  rapture  was  with  God. 

Ascending  spark,  that  from  our  stricken  sight 
Fled  quivering  upward  to  be  lost  in  light, 
.For  thee  no  moth  shall  mortal  pangs  endure, 
No  tears  shall  dim  thee  and  no  night  obscure ; 
Only  another  star  in  heaven  we  see, 
And  look  to  God  whene'er  we  look  for  thee. 


THE    PEACE    OF   GOD. 


Is  this  Thy  peace,  O  Lord  of  love  ! 

That  lies  upon  the  silent  hills, 
That  fills  the  fervid  skies  above 

And  all  the  earth  with  summer  thrills  ? 

When  frost  and  sun  and  storms  destroy, 
When  drifting  tempests  veil  the  blue, 

Alike  are  banished  calm  or  joy  ; 
Is  not  Thy  blessing  fixed  and  true  ? 


88  POEMS. 

Is  this  Thy  peace  that  falls  in  sleep 
On  weary  heart  and  busy  brain ; 

When,  worn  and  sad,  no  more  they  keep 
The  impress  of  incessant  pain  ? 

Soon  as  the  morning's  faithful  dawn 
Awakes  to  life  those  folded  eyes, 

Is  it  Thy  peace,  so  swiftly  gone, 

That  from  those  lips  and  eyelids  ilies  ? 

Ah !  well  I  know  it  lieth  hid, 

With  pallid  blossoms,  breathing  balm, 

Beneath  that  little  coffin-lid, 

Upon  those  features  fair  and  calm. 

The  signet  of  eternal  peace, 

The  wonderful  delight  of  death, 

The  spell  whose  charm  shall  never  cease, 
The  sacred  sleep  of  life  and  breath. 

So  still,  so  utter,  so  serene, 
So  endless  in  its  deep  repose ; 

As  tranquil  as  a  seraph's  mien, 
With  rest  no  rapture  ever  knows. 

Lord !  when  my  weary  spirit  fails. 
When  hope  departs  and  falters  faith, 

When  all  life's  dreadful  stress  assails, 

Send  me  Thy  peace  —  the  peace  of  death 


89 


A   VALENTINE. 

(For  my  Little  Sweetheart,  La  Fee  Blanche.) 

THE  merry  bells  go  singing  by, 
The  hills  are  white  and  drear, 

And  all  alone  and  sad  I  lie, 

And  watch  the  skies  grow  clear ; 

The  skies  that  spread  o'er  thy  dear  head, 
Far,  far  away  from  here. 

I  see  thy  fringed  and  tender  eyes, 

Thy  soft  and  flitting  smile, 
Across  a  sea  of  cloud  they  rise 

My  vision  to  beguile. 
Ah,  sweet  above  all  other  love 

That  wistful  baby  smile ! 

I  feel  the  clinging  arms  once  more, 

The  dear  voice  comes  again 
The  fleet,  shy  step  across  the  floor  — 

Oh,  is  it  joy  or  pain, 
Since  thou  art  gone  and  I  alone 

To  dream  such  dreams  in  vain  ? 


9°  POEMS. 

For  me  the  snow-bells  gayly  ring, 
And  white  the  hill-sides  glow ; 

For  thee  the  mock-birds  shrilly  sing 
With  orange-blooms  for  snow. 

Thy  Spring  is  there  and  everywhere, 
But  mine  fled  long  ago. 

A  weary  waste  of  sea  and  land 
Between  us  lies  to-day ; 

I  cannot  clasp  that  slender  hand, 
The  vision  will  not  stay. 

Not  even  sleep  my  dream  will  keep, 
With 'dawn  it  floats  away. 

Yet  over  land  and  over  sea 
I  send  the  dream  divine, 

To  tell  its  lovelorn  tale  to  thee, 
Sweetheart  and  love  of  mine  — 

To  choose  once  more,  as  oft  before, 
My  darling  Valentine. 


91 


THEN. 


I  GIVE  thee  treasures  hour  by  hour, 
That  old-time  princes  asked  in  vain, 

And  pined  for  in  their  useless  power, 
Or  died  of  passion's  eager  pain. 

I  give  thee  love  as  God  gives  light, 
Aside  from  merit  or  from  prayer, 

Rejoicing  in  its  own  delight, 
And  freer  than  the  lavish  air. 

I  give  thee  prayers  like  jewels  strung 
On  golden  threads  of  hope  and  fear, 

And  tenderer  thoughts  than  ever  hung 
In  a  sad  angel's  pitying  tear. 

As  earth  pours  freely  to  the  sea 

Its  thousand  streams  of  wealth  untold, 

So  flows  my  silent  life  to  thee, 
Glad  that  its  very  sands  are  gold. 

What  care  I  for  thy  carelessness? 

I  give  from  depths  that  overflow; 
Regardless  that  their  power  to  bless 

Thy  spirit  cannot  sound  or  know.      • 


92  POEMS. 

Far  lingering  on  a  distant  dawn, 

My  triumph  shines,  more  sweet  than  late, 

When,  from  these  mortal  mists  withdrawn, 
Thine  heart  shall  know  me,  —  I  can  wait. 


THANKSGIVING. 
II. 

THERE  is  a  new  song  in  my  lips, 

A  song  that  fits  to-day, 
The  music  of  a  quiet  stream 

Upon  its  seaward  way  — 
The  monotone  of  such  content 
As  to  a  mortal  life  is  lent. 

The  song  a  tiny  river  sings 

That  through  a  meadow  glides, 

Half  hidden  by  the  waving  grass 
Its  level  course  divides  ; 

At  last  forgetful  of  the  hills 

That  vexed  so  long  its  infant  rills. 

Not  yet  its  chant  of  victory 
Re-echoes  from  the  shore ; 

Not  yet  is  all  its  duty  done, 
Its  rush  and  labor  o'er ; 


THANKSGIVING.  93 

But  ocean  neareth  every  day, 
And  bright  is  life  that  glides  away. 

A  little  hymn  of  gratitude,     . 

Like  bird-songs  from  their  nest, 
My  heart  must  fashion  into  speech 

And  utter  from  its  rest 
A  tender  voice  of  thankfulness 
For  love  that  loveth  most  to  bless. 

The  slow  speech  of  a  weary  child 

That,  wandering  lost  and  lone, 
Comes  unaware  on  home  at  last 

And  nestles  to  its  own, 
Wrapped  all  at  once  in  warmth  and  peace, 
Where  all  the  storm  and  straying  cease. 

Ah  !  can  it  be,  at  last,  at  last, 

The  time  of  toil  and  tears, 
Of  bitter  trouble  overpast, 

That  hope  again  appears  ? 
That  after  all  this  weary  strife 
I  live  to  thank  thee,  Lord,  for  life  ? 

To  gather  up  the  broken  clue 

And  tread  the  path  again 
With  quiet  hope  and  thankfulness 

I  trod  so  long  with  pain, 
To  trust  again  with  such  a  faith 
As  once  was  wounded  unto  death  ? 


94  POEMS. 

Lord,  keep  me  closer  at  thy  side 
As  life  the  sweeter  grows, 

Lest  I  forget  in  this  content 
The  thorns  beneath  the  rose. 

That,  dear  as  home  and  love  may  be, 

I  find  them  still  most  dear  with  Thee. 


TIRED. 


LAY  down  my  head,  dear,  it's  no  use  to  cry  — 

My  trouble  is  passed,  I  am  going  to  die ; 

The  hill-path  is  over,  I'm  beat  in  the  race, 

For  the  wind  of  the  world  always  blew  in  my  face. 

It'll  daunt  me  no  more,  but  I  mind  how  it  blew. 
I  slipped  and  I  fell,  and  I  tried  it  anew ; 
But,  fight  you  or  flee,  it's  a  desperate  case 
To  clamber  up-hill  with  the  wind  in  your  face. 

Sweet,  sweet 'are  the  meadows,  by  river  or  rill, 
Where  the  turf  is  all  green  and  the  weather  is  still; 
But  people  can't  all  have  the  easiest  place  — 
The  wind  must  be  blowing  in  somebody's  face. 


NOW.  95 

I'm  tired  of  it,  Mary  !     I'm  glad  to  be  gone. 
You're  better  without  me,  you  won't  be  alone ; 
You  have  borne  with  my  sorrows  a  weariful  space 
And  the  wind  that  dismayed  me  has  blown  in  your  face. 

Good-bye,  little  maidie.     I  never  shall  stand 
In  your  sunshine,  my  darling,  my  rose  of  the  land ! 
My  trouble  your  bright  head  shall  never  abase  — 
The  wind  of  the  world  never'll  blow  in  your  face. 

Good-bye,  dears,  good-bye.     I  won't  kiss  you  again, 

I'm  far  out  too  weary  to  lengthen  my  pain. 

Just  cover  me  over;  I'll  lie  in  my  place 

Till  the  wind  is  all  quiet  that  blew  in  my  face. 

The  heavenly  sunshine  will  warm  me  up  there, 
No  wild  wind  or  tempest  shall  vex  the  soft  air ; 
When  the  last  sob  is  uttered,  God  grant  me  his  grace 
To  rest  where  the  wind  cannot  blow  in  my  face. 


NOW. 

THE  sweet,  sad  stir  of  Spring 

Is  in  my  heart  and  brain ; 
I  hear  once  more  the  wild  brooks  pour 

And  the  soft  south  wind  complain. 


g6  POEMS. 

Where  all  the  hills  were  green 

Is  a  brown  and  barren  waste ; 
But  Earth's  fresh  breath,  that  laughs  at  death, 

Tells  how  the  buds  make  haste. 

Through  the  gray  and  faded  grass 

The  green  blades  rise  to  light, 
And  the  wind  that  grieves  in  the  sweet  dead  leaves 

Is  full  of  vague  delight. 

Will  ever  a  spring-time  come, 

In  all  Life's  lingering  time, 
That  will  not  make  my  heart  awake 

As  it  wakened  in  its  prime  ? 

Will  all  these  weary  days 

So  fill  my  soul  with  fears 
That  the  wind's  soft  voice,  when  the  woods  rejoice. 

Shall  only  bring  me  tears  ? 

Ah !  never.     The  grass  shall  grow 

Though  a  thousand  winters  pass ; 
And  the  soul's  fresh  youth  with  tender  truth 

Still  spring  to  the  springing  grass. 


97 


DIES    ILLA. 


AN  awful  light  on  land  and  sea, 
Not  moonlight,  neither  dawn ; 

A  pallid,  livid,  growing  light, 
From  central  heaven  drawn. 

On  all  the  earth  it  brooded  deep  ; 

It  filled  the  arching  sky. 
From  cowering  trees  and  sullen  seas 

The  look  of  life  did  fly. 

A'  dreadful  sound  was  in  mine  ears, 
A  wailing,  deep  and  low  — 

The  travailing  and  groan  of  Earth, 
Beneath  her  final  woe. 

The  air  was  thrilled  with  agony, 
The  breath  I  breathed  was  pain. 

The  life-blood  crept  and  curdled  slow 
In  every  shrinking  vein. 

I  felt  my  flesh  forsake  my  soul, 

My  soul  cast  off  the  clay  ; 
Yet,  like  some  new-unprisoned  moth, 

Too  weak  to  soar  away. 

7 


98  POEMS. 

I  knew  the  day,  the  Day  of  God, 

The  end  of  mortal  fear ; 
I  saw,  far  off,  his  awful  host 

Mid  rolling  clouds  appear. 

How  called  and  craved  my  heart  of  flesh 
To  see  my  loved  once  more ! 

How  all  the  anguish  fled  and  died 
That  in  that  heart  I  bore ! 

They  gathered  fondly  to  my  side, 
Their  eyes  turned  sweet  on  mine ; 

They  clasped  me  in  their  arms  again 
With  tenderness  divine. 

The  light  of  God  shone  far  and  wide, 

It  showed  us  face  to  face ; 
We  knew  not  fear  nor  falling  worlds 

In  that  serene  embrace. 

No  chilling  glance,  no  scorning  word  — 
The  dear  old  speech  once  more, 

The  loving  tones  so  silent  long, 
The  looks  that  once  they  wore. 

Alas !  what  hot  and  streaming  tears 
The  heavenly  vision  broke, 

As  slowly  sad  to  mortal  days 
My  shivering  soul  awoke. 


THE    ANTIETAM    STATUE.  99 

Come,  Day  of  God,  immortal  day, 

Thou  healer  of  the  sad ! 
There  is  no  terror  in  thy  dawn, 

If  thus  thou  makest  glad. 

From  shuddering  seas  and  rending  skies 

No  more  I  shrink  and  hide ; 
Thy  crash  of  heaven  and  wreck  of  earth 

My  spirit  dare  abide. 

Haste,  on  thy  wings  of  heavenly  peace, 

Thou  art  no  Day  of  Dread ; 
Dawn  of  the  Lord's  unmeasured  love, 

Restorer  of  the  dead ! 


THE   ANTIETAM    STATUE. 


STEADFAST  and  sad  he  stands :  his  level  eyes 
Asking  stern  question  of  eternal  Fate. 
That  silent  host  of  dead  before  him  lies 
Whose  wondrous,  woful  loss,  no  years  abate : 
Whose  legend  all  the  rolling  plains  relate ; 
The  wind  that  wails :  the  unrelenting  skies. 
"What   have  these   done?"  their   answering   echo 
cries. 


1OO  POEMS. 

"  Their  life,  their  love,  their  youth's  sweet  promise 

gone; 

Gone  in  a  day  their  gilded  destinies. 
What  evil  errand  have  these  swift  lives  done, 
To  be  so  dipt,  like  insects  in  the  sun, 
And  this  gaunt  stone  to  mark  their  memories  ?" 
Stone  art  thou !     God,  in  each  true  soul  replies, 
"  These  men  who  died  for  man  outlive  all  earth  and 
skies." 


TRODDEN. 

THERE  are  steps  upon  the  snow : 
It  was  spotless  once  and  fair, 
What  stain  could  it  know, 
Falling  through  the  air  ? 

Alas !  upon  the  earth 
It  fluttered  and  lay  low, 
Forgetful  of  its  birth. 
And  steps  are  on  the  snow. 

There  are  steps  upon  the  snow, 
It  is  trodden  and  unclean  : 
What  now  shall  ever  show 
The  whiteness  that  hath  been  ? 


ARACHNE. 

So  innocent  and  still, 
Out  of  heaven  floating  slow 
Over  forest,  field,  and  hill. 
But  steps  are  on  the  snow ! 

There  are  steps  upon  the  snow 
It  is  stained  with  mire  and  clay : 
When  the  rain  of  Spring  shall  flow 
Will  it  wash  them  all  away  ? 

Ah  !  when  the  sweeping  rain 
Drops  heavily  and  slow, 
It  will  wash  away  the  stain, 
—  And  wash  away  the  snow. 


ARACHNE. 

I  WATCH  her  in  the  corner  there, 
As,  restless,  bold,  and  unafraid, 
She  slips  and  floats  along  the  air 
Till  all  her  subtile  house  is  made. 

Her  home,  her  bed,  her  daily  food 
All  from  that  hidden  store  she  draws; 
She  fashions  it  and  knows  it  good, 
By  instinct's  strong  and  sacred  laws. 


102  POEMS. 

» 

No  tenuous  threads  to  weave  her  nest, 
She  seeks  and  gathers  there  or  here ; 
But  spins  it  from  her  faithful  breast, 
Renewing  still,  till  leaves  are  sere. 

Then,  worn  with  toil,  and  tired  of  life, 
In  vain  her  shining  traps  are  set. 
Her  frost  hath  hushed  the  insect  strife 
And  gilded  flies  her  charm  forget. 

But  swinging  in  the  snares  she  spun. 
She  sways  to  every  wintry  wind : 
Her  joy,  her  toil,  her  errand  done, 
Her  corse  the  sport  of  storms  unkind. 

Poor  sister  of  the  spinster  clan ! 
I  too  from  out  my  store  within 
My  daily  life  and  living  plan, 
My  home,  my  rest,  my  pleasure  spin. 

I  know  thy  heart  when  heartless  hands 
Sweep  all  that  hard-earned  web  away  : 
Destroy  its  pearled  and  glittering  bands, 
And  leave  thee  homeless  by  the  way. 

I  know  thy  peace  when  all  is  done. 
Each  anchored  thread,  each  tiny  knot, 
Soft  shining  in  the  autumn  sun ; 
A  sheltered,  silent,  tranquil  lot. 


REST.  103 

I  know  what  thou  hast  never  known, 
—  Sad  presage  to  a  soul  allowed ;  — 
That  not  for  life  I  spin,  alone. 
But  day  by  day  I  spin  my  shroud. 


REST. 


"  OH  !  spare  me,  that  I  may  recover  strength,  before  I  go  hence, 
and  be  no  more." — Ps.  xxxix,  13. 


FOLD  up  thy  hands,  my  weary  soul, 
Sit  down  beside  the  way ! 

Thou  hast  at  last  a  time  to  rest, 
At  last  a  holiday. 

Thy  lingering  life  of  weariness, 
Thy  time  of  toil  and  tears, 

A  little  space  may  grant  thee  grace 
To  overcome  thy  fears. 

A  bright  access  of  patient  peace, 
Not  rapture,  nor  delight ; 

But  even  as  sounds  of  labor  cease 
Before  the  hush  of  night. 


/I04  POEMS. 

Or  as  the  storm  that  all  day  long 
Has  wailed,  and  raged,  and  wept, 

Nor  ceased  its  force  nor  changed  its  course, 
While  slow  the  daylight  crept ; 

But  suddenly,  before  the  sun 
Drops  down  behind  the  hills, 

A  clear,  calm  shining  parts  the  cloud 
And  all  the  ether  fills. 

Or  as  the  sweet  and  steadfast  shore 

To  them  that  sailed  the  sea ; 
Or  home  to  them  that  ply  the  oar, 

Or  leave  captivity. 

Like  any  child  that  cries  itself 

On  mother-breast  to  sleep, 
Lord,  let  me  lie  a  little  while, 

Till  slumber  groweth  deep ; 

So  deep  that  neither  love  nor  life 

Shall  stir  its  calm  repose - 
Beyond  the  stress  of  mortal  strife, 

The  strain  of  mortal  woes 

Spare  me  this  hour  to  sleep,  before 

Thy  sleepless  bliss  is  given ; 
Give  me  a  day  of  rest  on  earth, 

Before  the  work  of  Heaven  ! 


I05 


BIRD    MUSIC. 


SINGER  of  priceless  melody, 

Unguerdoned  chorister  of  air, 
Who  from  the  lithe  top  of  the  tree 
Pourest  at  will  thy  music  rare, 

As   if   a  sudden    brook    laughed   down   the    hill-side 
there. 

The  purple-blossomed  fields  of  grass, 

Waved  sea-like  to  the  idle  wind, 
Thick  daisies  that  the  stars  surpass, 

Being  as  fair  and  far  more  kind ;  — 
All  sweet  uncultured  things  thy  wild  notes  bring  to 
mind. 

When  that  enraptured  overflow 

Of  singing  into  silence  dies, 

Thy  rapid  fleeting  pinions  show 

Where  all  thy  spell  of  sweetness  lies 
Gathered  in  one  small  nest  from  the  wide  earth  and 
skies. 

Unconscious  of  thine  audience, 
Careless  of  praises  as  of  blame, 


I06  POEMS. 

In  simpleness  and  innocence, 

Thy  gentle  life  pursues  its  aim, 

So    tender    and    serene,    that    we    might    blush    for 
shame. 

The  patience  of  thy  brooding  wings 
That  droop  in  silence  day  by  day, 
The  little  crowd  of  callow  things 

That  joy  for  weariness  repay, — 

These  are  the  living  spring,  thy  song  the  fountain's 
spray. 


FASTRADA'S    RING. 


"  STRETCH  out  thy  hand,  insatiate  Time  ! 

Keeper  of  keys,  restore  to  me 
Some  gift  that  in  the  gray  Earth's  prime 

Her  happy  children  held  of  thee ; 
Some  signet  of  that  mystery 

Thy  footsteps  trample  into  death, 
Some  score  of  that  strange  harmony 

That  sings  in  every  breath." 


FASTRADA  S    RING.  107 

So  sung  I  on  an  autumn-day, 

Sitting  in  silence,  golden,  clear, 
When  even  the  mild  winds  seemed  to  pray 

Beside  the  slowly  dying  year, 
And  the  old  conqueror  stopped  to  hear; 

For,  like  the  echo  of  a  bell, 
I  heard  him  speak,  in  accents  clear : 
"  Choose  !  and  thy  wise  choice  tell !" 

Then  all  my  vanishing  desires, 

The  threads  of  hope  and  joy  and  pain, 

Long  burned  in  life's  consuming  fires, 
Came  glittering  into  life  again, 

And,  gathered  as  a  summer  rain 
Into  the  rainbow's  bended  wing, 

Cried,  with  one  voice  of  longing  vain  : 
"  Give  me  Fastrada's  ring ! 

"  Give  me  that  talisman  of  peace 

She  wore  upon  her  finger  white, 
Then  shall  the  weary  visions  cease, 

That  haunt  me  all  the  lingering  night ; 
The  world  shall  blossom  with  delight, 

And  birds  of  heaven  about  me  sing ; 
Ah  !  fill  these  darkened  eyes  with  light ! 

Give  me  Fastrada's  ring ! 

"  Give  me  no  jewels  from  thy  store, 

No  learned  scrolls,  no  gems  of  art; 
My  eager  wishes  grasp  at  more  : 

Sleep  for  a  worn  and  wretched  heart; 


108  POEMS. 

A  draught  to  melt  these  lips  apart, 

Sealed  with  such  thirst  as  death-pains  bring ; 

Love,  —  life's  sole  rest  and  better  part, 
Give  me  Fastrada's  ring !" 


TRUTHS. 

I  WEAR  a  rose  in   my  hair, 
Because  I  feel  like  a  weed ; 
Who  knows  that  the  rose  is  thorny 
And  makes  my  temples  bleed  ? 

If  one  gets  to  his  journey's  end,   what   matter  how 
galled  the  steed  ? 

I  gloss  my  face  with  laughter, 

Because  I  cannot  be  calm ; 

When  you  listen  to  the  organ, 

Do  you  hear  the  words  of  the  psalm  ? 
If  they  give  you  poison  to  drink,  'tis  better  to  call  it 
balm. 

If  I  sneer  at  youth's  wild  passion, 

Who  fancies  I  break  my  heart  ? 
'Tis  this  world's  righteous  fashion, 

With  a  sneer  to  cover  a  smart. 
Better  to  give  up  living  than  not  to  play  your  part. 


TRUTHS.  109 

If  I  scatter  gold  like  a  goblin, 

My  life  may  yet  be  poor. 
Does  Love  come  in  at  the  window 

When  Money  stands  at  the  door  ? 
I  am  what  I  seem  to  men.     Need  I  be  any  more  ? 

God  sees  from  the  high  blue  heaven, 

He  sees  the  grape  in  the  flower; 
He  hears  one's  life-blood  dripping 

Through  the  maddest,  merriest  hour ; 
He  knows  what  sackcloth  and  ashes  hide  in  the  purple 
of  power. 

The  broken  wing  of  the  swallow 

He  binds  in  the  middle  air; 
I  shall  be  what  I  am  in  Paradise  — 

So,  heart,  no  more  despair ! 

Remember  the  blessed  Jesus,  and  wipe  His  feet  with 
thy  hair. 


no 


HERE. 


WHEN  night  comes  brooding  o'er  me 

Like  a  prison's  dreary  cell, 
And  its  visions  rise  before  me 

With  a  dread  no  speech  can  tell ; 
When,  alone  with  my  only  longing 

And  the  darkening  spell  of  fear, 
I  watch  the  sad  stars  thronging 

Till  the  beams  of  dawn  appear  ; 
Then,  like  some  silver  chimes, 
Come  back  the  old,  old  times  — 

The  dear  old  times,  my  darling, 
The  living,  loving  times ! 

Unsleeping,  I  remember 

The  days  that  all  are  gone, 
Like  June  dreams  in  December, 

Or  flowers  when  summer's  done; 
The  times  that  are  never  over, 

For  they  live  in  heart  and  brain, 
And,  like  kisses  from  a  lover, 

Their  spell  comes  back  again. 
Like  a  song  of  magic  rhymes, 
Return  the  dear  old  times  — 

The  old,  old  times,  my  darling, 
The  living,  loving  times ! 


HERE. 

This  is  my  lone  life's  treasure, 

That  none  can  take  away  — 
Remembrance  without  measure 

Of  every  vanished  day, 
Of  love-light  round  me  streaming, 

Of  tender  lips  and  eyes  ; 
Awake  I  lie,  yet  dreaming, 

Nor  sleep  till  day  shall  rise. 
Like  a  bee  in  blossomed  limes, 
I  live  in  those  old  times  — 

The  times  you  know,  my  darling, 
The  living,  loving  times  ! 

Cold  are  the  skies  above  me, 

The  earth  is  wrapped  in  snow, 
And  if  still,  as  then,  you  love  me, 

Alas !  I  cannot  know  — 
Silence  between  us  lying, 

More  chill  than  winter's  cold, 
And  my  heart  like  a  baby  crying 

For  its  mother's  wonted  hold ; 
But  I  breathe  the  summer's  prime 
Remembering  that  old  time, 

Though  you  forget  it,  darling, 
The  living,  loving  time ! 


112 


LISE. 

IF  I  were  a  cloud  in  heaven, 

I  would  hang  over  thee; 
If  I  were  a  star  of  even, 

I'd  rise  and  set  for  thee ; 
For  love,  life,  light,  were  given 

Thy  ministers  to  be. 

If  I  were  a  wind's  low  laughter, 

I'd  kiss  thy  hair; 
Or  a  sunbeam  coming  after, 

Lie  on  thy  forehead  fair; 
For  the  world  and  its  wide  hereafter 

Have  nought  with  thee  to  compare. 

If  I  were  a  fountain  leaping, 

Thy  name  should  be 
The  burden  of  my  sweet  weeping; 

If  I  were  a  bee, 
My  honeyed  treasures  keeping, 

'Twere  all  for  thee ! 

There's  never  a  tided  ocean 

Without  a  shore ; 
Nor  a  leaf  whose  downward  motion 

No  dews  deplore; 
And  I  dream  that  my  devotion 

May  move  thee  to  sigh  once  more. 


DEPARTING. 

WEEP  not  for  the  dead !    they  lie 
Safe  from  every  changing  sky; 
Over  them  thou  shalt  not  cry 

Any  more. 

Weep  for  him  whose  lessening  sail* 
Borne  upon  an  outward  gale, 
Sees  the  beacon  faint  and  fail 

On  the  shore. 

Weep  not  for  the  dead :  they  sleep 

Where  no  evil  visions  creep; 

God  hath  sealed  their  slumber  deep 

Till  His  day. 

Weep  for  him  who  fleeth  fast 
On  a  fierce  and  alien  blast, 
Torn  from  all  the  haunted  past, 

Far  away. 

He  shall  never  see  again 
Home-lit  valley,  hill,  or  plain; 
He  shall  mourn  and  cry  in  vain 

O'er  the  dead. 

Wandering  in  a  stranger-land, 
None  shall  grasp  his  listless  hand, 
No  sweet  sister-nurse  shall  stand 

By  his  bed. 

8 


114  POEMS. 

Weep  for  him,  and  weep  for  those 
Who  shall  never  more  unclose 
Home's  dear  portals,  nor  repose 

In  its  rest. 

Foreign  where  their  kindred  dwell, 
Strange  where  they  have  loved  too  well. 
Homesick  as  no  speech  can  tell, 

All  unblest. 

For  the  dead  thou  shalt  not  mourn, 
He  hath  reached  a  peaceful  bourne; 
Weep  for  him,  the  travel- worn, 

All  alone ! 

Life's  long  torture  he  must  bear 
Till  his  very  soul  despair, 
Helpless  both  for  cry  or  prayer ; 

Make  his  moan ! 


A    STATUE. 


DREAM  divine  and  tender, 

Frozen  into  stone; 
Pall  nor  purple  splendor 

Round  thy  grace  is  thrown ; 
Thou  standest  like  a  star,  clothed  in  thy  light  alone. 


A    STATUE.  115 

Silent  with  the  passion 

Of  thy  new  despair; 

In  the  spotless  fashion 

That  all  angels  wear; 
Like   softly   falling   snow   thy   presence   fills   the   air. 

On  thy  lips  half-parted, 

Sleeps  a  dreaming  sigh; 
Love  and  hope  departed 

Droop  thy  pensive  eye; 
And  anguish  on  thy  brow  hath  set  her  majesty. 

Neither  shame  nor  madness 

Touch  thy  spirit  pure ; 
Regally  hath  sadness 

Taught  thee  to  endure ; 
Earth  passes  at  thy  feet,  but  heaven  is  ever  sure. 

Like  the  languid  tolling 

Of  a  funeral  bell, 
Or  the  awful  rolling 

Of  the  ocean's  swell, 

Thou  stillest  sound  with  awe,   through   power's  sub- 
limest  spell. 

In  what  holy  vision 

Of  a  midnight  moon, 
Did  thy  shape  Elysian 

Rise,  like  some  sad  tune, 

Through  the  rapt  sculptor's  soul,  and  turn  his  night 
to  noon  ? 


Il6  POEMS. 

Utter  thus  forever, 

With  resistless  tongue, 
Higher  thought  than  ever 

Bird  or  breeze  hath  sung; 
For   Beauty  never   dies,   and    Grace   is   ever  young. 


APRIL. 

The  clouds  return  after  the  rain.'' — ECCL.  xii.  2. 

A  FITFUL,  wistful  April  sky, 

At  last  a  breath  of  Spring  again, 

A  glimpse  to  rest  the  weary  eye, 
A  spark  of  hope,  a  sigh  of  pain, 
The  clouds  returning  after  rain ! 

My  little  darling  and  delight, 
To  thee  all  wintry  clouds  are  vain ; 

For  once,  for  all,  they  take  their  flight. 
Thy  summer  is  an  endless  gain, 
Thy  clouds  return  not  after  rain. 

Alas !    how  short  my  summers  be, 
How  long  is  winter's  dreary  reign ; 

The  sunny  days  so  swiftly  flee, 
The  snowy  drifts  so  long  remain, 
Thy  clouds  so  fast  succeed  the  rain  ! 


"  LATA    SILENTIA.  117 

For  buds  the  sunshine  should  delay, 

Lest,  nipped  by  frost,  their  bloom  be  vain ; 

But  for  the  flower  that  fades  away, 
The  sunbeams  only  burn  and  stain  — 
For  this  the  cloud  must  follow  rain. 

Bask  in  thy  summer,  fairest  child ! 

Thy  tender  bloom  and  blush  attain ; 
For  thee  let  all  the  winds  be  mild, 

All  summer  sweets  attend  thy  train, 

Nor  any  clouds  come  after  rain. 

God  sends  us  each  to  suit  our  need. 

He  offers  to  my  bitter  pain 
The  coming  rest  that  rests  indeed, 

The  sleep  that  never  comes  in  vain, 

The  cloud  returning  after  rain. 


"LATA   SILENTIA." 


YE  vacant  and  far-spreading  silences 
Men  call  with  low  and  trembling  voice  the  tomb, 
Are  there  not  other  regions  with  no  less 
Of  solitude  and  gloom  ? 


Il8  POEMS. 

In  the  wide  chambers  of  your  dreary  realm 
The  struggle  of  this  labored  life  is  o'er; 
The  mariner  forgets  his  drifting  helm, 
The  landsman  delves  no  more. 

There,  if  the  heart  lie  desolate  and  cold, 
Its  pulses  rest  alike  unvexed  and  chill, 
There  all  unheeding  slumber  young  and  old, 
Devoid  of  good  or  ill. 

They  suffer  not  who  know  not  joy  or  pain ; 
But  we  who  toil  across  the  desert  sands 
Are  visited  by  tempests  and  fierce  rain 
Unknown  to  those  drear  lands. 

When  the  dismaying  south  wind  hotly  blows, 
Its  breath  of  passion  blasts  both  flower  and  tree, 
And,  though  before  it  Paradise  arose, 
Behind  it  deserts  be. 

These  are  the  true  wide  silences  of  time, 
Whence  all  the  glory  that  abode  has  gone, 
Wherein,  through  every  season,  change,  and  clime, 
The  soul  remains  alone. 

The  haunts  once  redolent  with  life  and  bliss, 
Still  as  the  waters  of  a  reedy  lake, 
Whose  stagnant  pool  no  swallow  dares  to  kiss, 
Whose  sleep  no  winds  awake. 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS.  119 

Or  they  who  are  accursed  with  leprosy, 
Stamped  with  the  branded  sign  of  mortal  sin, 
Wide  as  the  sky  from  which  they  cannot  flee, 
Their  silence  reigns  within. 

% 

Oh  !  for  one  voice  to  break  this  hush  profound  ! 
One  echo  through  these  vaulted  depths  to  spread. 
Descend  from  Heaven,  divine  delaying  sound, 
Awake  these  living  dead ! 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS. 

LAST  blossoms  of  the  blooming  year, 
That  linger  on  the  edge  of  frost, 
A  tender  dream  of  summer  lost, 

Touched  by  the  shade  of  wintry  fear. 

No  perfume  of  the  violet 

That  hides  its  purple  in  the  grass, 
Lest  all  the  bees  that  buzz  and  pass 

Should  kiss  those  eyes,  so  sweet  and  wet ; 

No  fervent  passion  of  the  rose, 

Flower  of  the  noonday  and  the  south, 
That  sunward  turns  her  crimson  mouth, 

And  all  her  heart  of  splendor  shows  ; 


120  POEMS. 

Nor  lily,  cold  and  proudly  pale, 
That  lives  and  dies  an  idle  queen ; 
No  honey  in  her  breast  serene, 

No  blush  for  any  fluttering  gale. 

Yet  dear,  as  dear  as  all  the  last ; 
Dear  as  the  sad  delight  of  dreams, 
When  day  across  our  eyelids  streams, 

And  all  their  transient  bliss  is  past ; 

Painted  with  tints  like  Autumn's  eve, 
When  daylight  leaves  the  misty  sky, 
And  through  the  gray  woods  listlessly 

The  twilight  wind  begins  to  grieve ; 

The  pallid  pink  of  fading  light, 

The  somber  red  that  threatens  storm, 
A  sunset  saffron  soft  and  warm, 

Or  petals  like  the  hoar-frost  white. 

Alas !  while  to  my  lips  ye  press, 

And  ask  for  praise  and  pray  for  love, 
All  loveliness  and  grace  above, 

I  taste  your  breath  of  bitterness. 

Bitter  and  sweet  these  odors  rise, 

My  welcome  sounds  like  sad  farewell, 
And  while  I  laud  your  gracious  spell 

The  tears  stand  trembling  in  mine  eyes. 


121 


WOOD    LAUREL. 

QUEEN  regnant  of  the  summer  wood, 
That  hearest  thrush  and  hangbird  cry, 
With  such  a  dream-like  majesty 
As  crowns  thee,  out  of  solitude, 
The  fairest  flower  that  ever  stood, 
Impassive,  safe  from  sympathy. 

Light  roseate  cloud  of  dawning  day, 
Hung  floating  in  the  gloom  of  leaves, 
Vainly  for  thee  the  night-wind  grieves, 
Vainly  all  forest-murmurs  stray. 
In  thy  cold  blossoms  vainly  play 
The  thousand  love-songs  Nature  weaves. 

So  pure,  so  perfect,  so  serene, 
With  tender,  mocking  blushes  dyed, 
The  cankerous  honey-dew  of  pride, 
Charms  soft  and  deadly  in  thy  mien, 
The  natural  sceptre  of  a  queen, 
Heart  frozen,  but  half  deified. 

Beware,  oh  glancing  butterfly  ! 

The  rosy  bloom  is  sweet  to  see, 

But  have  thou  care  of  majesty, 

The  serf  that  loves  the  queen  must  die. 


122  POEMS. 

Gay,  living  blossom  .'    dance  and  fly 
To  humbler  feasts,  secure  for  thee. 

Assiduous  honey-bee,  beware ! 

Those  bright  cups   glow  with  poisoned  wine 

The  wild-rose  and  the  columbine 

Have  simple  treasures,  safe  to  share. 

This  regal  beauty  holds  thy  snare, 

The  form,  but  not  the  soul,  divine. 


NEMESIS. 

WITH  eager  steps  I  go 

Across  the  valleys  low, 
Where  in  deep  brakes  the  writhing  serpents  hiss. 

Above,  below,  around, 

I  hear  the  dreadful  sound 
Of  thy  calm  breath,  eternal  Nemesis! 

Over  the  mountains  high, 

Where  silent  snow-drifts  lie, 
And  greet  the  red  morn  with  a  pallid  kiss, 

There,  in  the  awful  night, 

I  see  the  solemn  light 
Of  thy  clear  eyes,  avenging  Nemesis ! 


NEMESIS.  123 

Far  down  in  lonely  caves, 

Dark  as  the  empty  graves 
That  wait  our  dead  hopes  and  our  perished  bliss, 

Though  to  their  depths  I  flee, 

Still  do  my  fixed  eyes  see 
Thy  pendant  sword,  unchanging  Nemesis  ! 

Inevitable   fate ! 

Still  must  thy  phantoms  wait 
And  mock  my  shadow  like  its  fearful  twin  ? 

Is  there  no  final  rest 

In  this  doom-haunted  breast  ? 
Does  thy  terrific  patience  wait  therein  ? 

"  Aye  !    wander  as  thou  wilt, 
The  blood  thy  hand  hath  spilt 

Stamps  on  thy  brow  its  black,  eternal  sign ; 
Thyself  thou  canst  not  flee. 
Writhe  in  thine  agony ! 

Suffer!    despair!    thou  art  condemned  —  and   mine." 


124 


MARGARITAS   ANTE    PORCOS. 


SEE  how  they  crowd  and  snort  below, 
And  fight  for  husks  all  brown  and  dry ; 

While  at  their  feet,  like  beads  of  snow, 
The  pearls  you  threw  to  feed  them  lie. 

Tears  that  the  bruised  and  breaking  heart 
Hides  in  its  shell,  to  jewels  turn ; 

They  have  their  value  in  the  mart, 

They  glitter —  when  they  cease  to  burn. 

Go,  take  them  to  the  smiling  bride, 
Your  life  that  lives  in  frozen  tears ; 

They  crown  her  dark  hair's  odorous  pride, 
The  heart-beats  swing  them  in  her  ears. 

Oh,  fool !  to  fling  them  to  the  swine, 
That  tramp  and  snatch  and  rend  below; 

You  pour  away  your  life  divine, 

And  think  to  reap  the  grain  you  sow ! 

Know,  then,  that  all  your  waste  is  vain  — 
Vainly  these  precious  gems  are  thrown ; 

The  snuffling  herds  that  crowd  the  plain 
Are  hungry  beasts,  and  beasts  alone. 


NOT    MINE.  125 


Alas  !  what  dream  of  fond  despair, 
What  lavish  love,  hath  power  divine 

To  work  an  answer  to  your  prayer, 
To  make  you  angels  out  of  swine  ? 

4 


NOT    MINE. 

SAFE  by  the  fireside  I  hear  the  winds  blow, 
Out  of  the  window  are  wild  wastes  of  snow ; 
Here  as  I  sit  by  the  firelight  alone, 
See  the  drifts  glitter  and  hear  the  wind  moan, 
Children's  fair  faces  come  back  through  the  night, 
One  and  another,  the  pale  and  the  bright, 
Dear  to  my  soul  while  it  loves  will  they  be ; 
Though   when    they  called   "mother!"   they   did   not 
call  me. 

One  fell  asleep  on  the  fields  of  the  West, 
A  soldier's  blue  jacket  wrapped  over  his  breast. 
No  more  those  dark  eyes  will  brighten  for  me, 
Never  again  that  keen  smile  shall  I  see, 
Never  be  clasped  in  the  arms  of  my  boy  : 
Yet  is  he  mine  beyond  death  to  destroy. 
Mine  in  the  love  that  knows  future  nor  past, 
Mine  while  the  pulses  of  tenderness  last; 


126  POEMS. 

Living  and  dying  my  child  he  will  be. 

Though  when  he  called  "  mother  !"  he  did  not  call  me  ! 

One  wears  a  shadow  across  her  fair  brow, 

But  the  shadow  is  brighter  than  sunbeams  are  now : 

Her  tender  face  softens,  her  roses  grow  pale 

In  the  gleam  of  its  whiteness ;  her  own  bridal  veil. 

My  loveliest  baby  !     God  keep  thee  as  pure 

While  thy  life  and  thy  love  shall  together  endure, 

As  the  first  hour  I  held  thee  asleep  in  my  arms, 

Serene  in  the  halo  of  babyhood's  charms. 

God  send  thee  fair  children  to  stand  at  thy  knee, 

Who  when  they  say  mother,  shall  say  it  to  thee. 

One  is  a  wanderer  over  the  sea. 
When  will  his  footsteps  turn  shoreward  to  me  ? 
Others  are  gathered  by  fires  of  their  own : 
Here,  by  a  stranger's,  I'm  dreaming  alone. 
Dreaming  of  days  that  forever  are  dead, 
Hopes  and  caresses  and  darlings  all  fled, 
Bitterest  dreams,  that  the  sweetest  might  be, 
If  when  they  called  "  mother  "  they  could  have  called 
me! 

Two  little  faces  with  glittering  hair 
Ghosts  of  the  past,  hover  over  my  chair 
Faces  I  watched  over  morning  and  night, 
Eyes  that  once  blessed  me  with  deepest  delight, 
Voices  that  thrilled  to  the  depths  of  my  soul, 
Shake  me  with  longing  I  cannot  control. 


THE    FISHING    SONG.  127 

Oh !  if  those  dear  lives  should  falter  and  fail 

The  veins  of  my  heart  at  their  sources  would  quail : 

Life  would  forsake  me  though  death  should  forget ; 

All  that  I  have  on  their  being  is  set. 

Dearer  than  living  or  loving  they  be ; 

Yet  when  they  call  "  mother !"  they  do  not  call  me. 


THE    FISHING   SONG. 


DOWN  in  the  wide,  gray  river, 
The  current  is  sweeping  strong; 

Over  the  wide,   gray  river, 
Floats  the  fisherman's  song. 

The  oar-stroke  times  the  singing; 

The  song  falls  with  the  oar; 
And  an  echo  in  both  is  ringing; 

I  thought  to  hear  no  more. 

Out  of  a  deeper  current, 

The  song  brings  back  to  me 

A  cry  from  mortal  silence, 
Of  mortal  agony. 


128  POEMS. 

Life  that  was  spent  and  vanished, 
Love  that  had  died  of  wrong, 

Hearts  that  are  dead  in  living, 

Come  back  on  the  fisherman's  song. 

I  see  the  maples  leafing, 
Just  as  they  leafed  before ; 

The  green  grass  comes  no  greener 
Down  to  the  very  shore. 

And  the  rude  song  swelling,  sinking, 
In  the  cadence  of  days  gone  by, 

As  the  oar,  from  the  water  drinking, 
Ripples  the  mirrored  sky. 

Yet  the  soul  hath  life  diviner; 

Its  past  returns  no   more; 
But  in  echoes  that  answer  the  minor 

Of  the  boat-song  from  the  shore. 

And  the  ways  of  God  are  darkness, 
His  judgment  waiteth  long; 

He  breaks  the  heart  of  a  woman 
With  a  fisherman's  careless  song. 


129 


A    CHRISTMAS   VISION. 

SADLY  before  the  window 
The  floating  snow-flakes  fell, 

Along  the  air  all  cold  and  fair, 
And  on  my  heart  as  well. 

The  dreary  weary  winter, 
Held  up  his  mighty  spear, 

My  blood  ran  chill  with  winter  cold 
And  slow  with  winter's  fear. 

But  suddenly  a  sun-beam 

Across  the  snow-storm  shone, 

And  strange  to  tell,  like  any  spell, 
The  snow-flakes  all  were  flown ! 

They  vanished  like  a  vision 

Before  the  sunny  flame, 
And  in  their  place  a  sudden  crowd 

Of  smiling   angels   came. 

A  million  little  angels 

With  faces  dazzling  fair, 
And  eyes  as  bright  as  starry  light 

Beneath  their  shining  hair: 


130  POEMS. 

And  through  the  moaning  tempest 

As  suddenly  there   fell 
A  tiny,  tinkling,  laughing  sound, 

Like  some  sweet  silver  bell : 

Another,    and    another, 

Till    all    the   frosty   sky 
With  soft  repeat  was  ringing  sweet, 

And  words  came  wandering  by. 

"  We  are  Love's  little  angels ; 

When  earth  is  bare  and  brown 
We  cover  all  her  wounds  and  scars 
With  mantles  soft  as  down. 

"  The  rocks  that  hid  their  faces 
In  summer,  green  and  deep, 
But  frown  to-day  severe  and  grey, 
We  cover   up  to  sleep. 

"The  long  and  lonely  meadows 

That  lose  their  blossoms  bright, 
And  weep  for  all  their  loveliness, 
We  veil  with  glittering  white : 

"The  forest  boughs  that  shudder 
All  knotted,  black,  and  bare, 
We  hang  with  flowers  like  bridal  bowers, 
The  blossom  bells  of  air. 


A    CHRISTMAS    VISION.  131 

"The  drear  and  silent  solitudes 
We  veil  with  tender  grace, 
There  is  no  blight  we  do  not  hide, 
On  all  the  sad  earth's  face. 

'•'  Above  the  sleeping  roses, 

Above  the  wild-wood  flowers, 
We  spread  our  warm  and  shining  robes 
Through  all  the  winter  hours. 

"  We  are  Love's  little  angels, 
But  mortal  eyes  are  dim; 
Men  cannot  see  how  fair  we  be, 
Nor  hear  our  joyful  hymn : 

"We  are  Love's  shrouded  angels, 
But  birds  and  blossoms  know, 
When  God's  dear  love  falls  from  above, 
Though  men  may  call  it  snow!" 


132 


MARY. 

THE  box  is  not  of  stainless  alabaster 

Which  o'er  Thy  feet  I  break  ; 
Nor  filled  with  costly  ointment,  gracious  Master, 

Poured  for  Thy  sake. 

Nay,  rather  is  it  shapen  in  this  fashion  — 

A  living  heart. 
Dashed  all  across  with  scarlet  stains  of  passion, 

And  broke  in  part ; 

While  from  its  open  wound  comes  softly  dripping, 

Like  slow  tears  shed, 
In  heavy  drops,  along  Thy  footstool  slipping, 

Its  life-blood  red. 

It  needs  no  balm  of  myrrh  for  sweet  or  bitter, 

But  life  and  love  : 
These  sad  conditions  make  my  offering  fitter 

Thy  heart  to  move. 

From  all  these  chains  of  cruel  wrong  and  anguish, 

This  load  of  grief 
Wherewith  my  soul  doth  pant,  and  mourn  and  languish, 

Give  me  relief! 


HESPER.  133 

In  Thy  far  home  is  not  Thy  soul  still  tender 

For  mortal  woe  ? 
Hear'st  Thou  not  still 'amid  that  spotless  splendor 

The  seraphs  know  ? 

Oh  turn  Thy  human  eyes  from  heavenly  glory ! 

Say  as  before 

Those  tenderest  words  of  all  Thy  gospel  story  — 
"  Go,  sin  no  more  !" 


HESPER. 


SUNSET  on  the  mountains  hoary, 

Deepens  into  night ; 
Day  hath  lost  its  crown  of  glory, 

Life  hath  lost  its  light. 

In  mine  eyes  the  tears  are  springing, 

For  thy  face  I   see; 
In  my  heart   its  dreams  are  singing, 

Mournful  songs  of  thee. 


134  POEMS. 

All  the  sunshine  fled  from  heaven 
With  thy  closing   eyes ; 

Yet  on  me,  at  lonely  even, 
Clear  as  stars  they  rise. 

Though  the  way  be  long  and  dreary 
Down  the  mountain's  side, 

I  no  more  can  call  it  weary, 
Thou  art  there  my  bride! 

I  behold  thy  garments  flowing, 
Snow-like,  in  the  moon; 

See  thy  parted  lips  are  glowing, 
Red  as  flowers  in  June. 

Underneath  the  daisies  lying, 
Lost  in  dreamless  sleep; 

Thou  hast  heard  my  nightly  crying, 
Thou  hast  left  my  sleep. 

All  the  night  in  visions  tender, 
Love  and  life  return; 

Until  morning's  cloudy  splendor 
O'er  the  hills  shall  burn. 

Day  glides  slowly  o'er  the  meadow, 
Love  and  life  to  steal ; 

But  the  first  star's  trembling  shadow 
Brings  a  bridal  peal. 


'35 


REVE    DU   MIDI. 

WHEN  o'er  the  mountain  steeps 
The  hazy  noontide  creeps, 
And  the  shrill  cricket  sleeps 

Under  the  grass; 
When  soft  the  shadows  lie, 
And  clouds  sail  o'er  the  sky, 
And  the  idle  winds  go  by, 
With  the  heavy  scent  of  blossoms  as  they  pass ; 

Then,  when  the  silent  stream 
Lapses  as  in  a  dream, 
And  the  water-lilies  gleam 

Up  to  the  sun; 

When  the  hot  and  burdened  day 
Stops  on  its  downward  way, 
When  the  moth  forgets  to  play, 
And  the  plodding  ant  may  dream  her  toil  is  done ; 

Then,  from  the  noise  of  war, 
And  the  din  of  earth  afar, 
Like  some  forgotten  star 

Dropt  from  the  sky ; 
With  the  sounds  of  love  and  fear, 
All  voices  sad  and  dear 
Banish  to  silence  drear, 
The  willing  thrall  of  trances  sweet  I   lie. 


136  POEMS. 

Some  melancholy  gale 
Breathes  its  mysterious  tale, 
Till  the  rose's  lips  grow  pale 

With  her  sighs : 

And  o'er  my  thoughts  are  cast 
Tints  of  the  vanished  past, 
Glories  that  faded  fast, 
Renewed  to  splendor  in  my  dreaming  eyes. 

As  poised  on  vibrant  wings, 
Where  his  sweet  treasure  swings, 
The  honey-lover  clings 
To  the  red  flowers : 
So,  lost  in  vivid  light, 
So,  rapt  from  day  and  night, 
I  linger  in  delight, 
Enraptured  o'er  the  vision-freighted  hours. 


137 


REMEMBERING. 

WHEN  I  remember 
The  glow  of  that  departed  place 
Where  life  beguiled  its  day  of  grace, 
Far  off  through  all  these  misty  years, 
Or  through  the  dimmer  haze  of  tears, 
Forever  green  it  seems  to  me ; 
Immortal  blooms  on  every  tree  — 
A  land  wherein  the  very  snow, 
Like  falling  flowers,  came  soft  and  slow; 
No  winter  chill  to  crisp  the  air, 
But  Spring  eternal  everywhere. 
Dear,  vanished  land !  how  fair  to  see 
Those  sad  and  lovely  pastures  be, 

That  I  remember ! 

When  I  remember 
The  little  cluster  of  my  kin, 
Who  stood  those  sunny  fields  within, 
How  fair  they  seem  !  how  close  they  press, 
Intent  to  serve,  to  love,  to  bless ! 
A  little  world,  enough  for  me, 
Whose  kings  I  worshipped  loyally  : 
Where  are  they  ?     One  is  always  here ; 
Her  dark  eyes  shine  with  peace  and  cheer ; 


138  POEMS. 

Through  all  the  watches  of  the  night 
They  gleam  with  love's  divinest  light. 
"  My  child,"  she  says,  "  I  love  thee  still ; 
I  could  not  work  thee  wrong  or  ill ; 
I  wait  and  watch  for  some  sweet  day 
To  bring  thy  wearied  soul  away." 
I  wake,  and  know  that  she  is  dead; 
Ah,  mother-love!  to  heaven  fled  — 
That  I  remember. 

When  I  remember 
The  friends  I  had  so  long  ago, 
Whose  friendly  faces  still  I  know ; 
Whose  faithful  love  has  proved  its  power, 
And  rallied  round  my  darkest  hour; 
Who  closer  to  my  soul  have  stood 
Than  closest  ties  of  kindred  blood ; 
The  blossoms  that  have  grown  to  fruit, 
The  acorn  with  the  oak-tree's  root, 
I  feel  how  strong  my  life  has  grown, 
Although  its  pillow  were  a  stone, 
And  thank  His  mercy  who  has  sent 
These  angels  through  the  firmament, 
More  dear  a  thousand-fold  to-day 
Than  in  their  first  and  fresh  array, 

That  I  remember. 

When  I  remember 
The  hunger  after  righteousness^ 
The  hope  all  evil  to  redress, 


REMEMBERING.  139 

The  wishes  deeper  than  the  sea, 
The  heart  that  shrank  from  misery ; 
The  doubt,  and  weakness,  and  dismay, 
That  clogged  that  heart  from  day  to  day ; 
I  know  the  faith  that  storms  have  tried, 
The  courage  born  of  broken  pride, 
The  patience  that  can  trust  and  wait, 
Unawed  by  cruelty  and  hate ; 
The  home  that  holds  me  safe  at  length, 
The  love  that  clasps  with  tenderer  strength, 
The  hope  that  rests  in  God  at  last, 
A  thousand  times  exceed  the  past, 
With  all  its  futile  hopes  and  dreams, 
Its  land  of  radiant  fields  and  streams, 
Its  faith  betrayed,  its  vain  delight, 
As  far  as  noon  exceeds  the  night. 
Nor  know  I  now  one  poor  regret 
For  all  that  land  so  lovely  yet, 
That  I  remember. 


140 


DAISIES. 


FAIR   and   peaceful    daisies, 

Smiling   in   the   grass, 
Who   hath   sung   your  praises  ? 

Poets   by   you   pass, 
And  I  alone  am  left  to  celebrate  your  mass. 

In   the   summer  morning, 

Through   the   fields   ye   shine, 
Joyfully   adorning 

Earth   with   grace   divine, 
And  pour,  from  sunny  hearts,  fresh  gladness  into  mine. 

Lying   in   the   meadows, 
Like   the   milky    way, 
From   nocturnal    shadows 

Glad   to  fall   away, 
And  live  a  happy  life  in  the  wide  light  of  day. 

Bees   about   you   humming 

Pile   their   yellow   store, 

Winds   in   whispers   coming 

Teach   you   love's   sweet   lore, 
For  your  reluctant  lips  still  worshipping  the  more. 


DAISIES.  141 

Birds   with   music   laden 

Shower   their   songs   on   you; 
And   the   rustic   maiden, 
Standing    in    the   dew, 
By  your  alternate  leaves  tells  if  her  love  be  true. 

Little   stars   of  glory  ! 

From   your   amber   eyes 
No   inconstant   story 

Of  her   love    should   rise ! 
And  yet  "  He  loves  me  not !"  is  oft  the  sad  surprise. 

Crowds   of  milk-white   blossoms! 

Noon's   concentred   beams 
Glowing   in    your   bosoms; 

So,   by   living   streams 

In   heaven,    I    think   the   light   of  flowers   immortal 
gleams. 

When   your   date   is   over, 

Peacefully   ye   fade, 
With    the   fragrant   clover 

And   sweet   grasses  laid, 
In  odors  for  a  pall  beneath  the  orchard  shade. 

Happy,   happy   daisies ! 

Would    I    were   like   you, 
Pure   from   human   praises, 

Fresh    with    morning    dew, 
And  ever  in  my  heart  to  heaven's  clear  sunshine  true  ! 


142 


BATTLE-FLAG   DAY. 


A  LITTLE  sprite  sat  in  a  high  oak-tree, 

Laughing  loudly  in  scornful  glee, 

For  he  heard  the  bells  ring  long  and  loud, 

He  saw  the  rush  of  a  mighty  crowd. 

The  cannon's  roar  and  the  throbbing  drum, 

Rose  from  the  city's  ceaseless  hum 

Like  the  dash  and  beat  of  a  stormy  sea, 

Till  it  tossed  and  fluttered  the  old  oak-tree. 

He  saw  the  lift  of  the  battle-flags 
As  the  rough  wind  troubled  their  bloody  rags, 
And  the  marching  veterans  grim  and  old, 
Who  once  were  stalwart  and  young  and  bold, 
The  marbled  halls  like  a  shining  dream, 
The  flag-case  bright  with  silvery  gleam, 
And  the  feast  for  that  weary  company ; 
But  louder  he  laughed  in  mocking  glee. 

Hurrah !  he  yelled,  for  the  battle-flags ! 
But  where  are  the  men  that  bore  the  rags 
High  overhead  through  seas  of  fire, 
Right  into  the  rebels'  cruel  ire  ? 


BATTLE-FLAG    DAY.  143 

Some  on  the  field  lie  stark  and  dead, 
Their  children  hunger  to-day  for  bread, 
Their  wives  are  toiling  in  need  and  rags : 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  the  battle-flags ! 

Some  are  tilling  a  barren  soil ; 

What  did  they  bring  from  the  battles'  spoil  ? 

A  single  leg  and  fingers  three. 

No  matter !  the  flags  wave  merrily. 

Here  is  another  without  an  arm, 

Death  had  done  him  a  lesser  harm  : 

He  grinds  an  organ  along  the  street 

One  hand  earns  him  food  to  eat. 

The  lost  one  carried  those  battle-flags.  — 

Hurrah !  hurrah  !  for  the  tattered  rags  ! 

Fools  and  blind  !  while  the  banners  fly 

You  leave  their  bearers  in  want  to  die. 

The  husk  is  honored  and  praised  and  sung 

The  kernel  into  the  gutter  flung. 

Go  feed  and  cherish  the  maimed  old  man, 

Who  gives  to  his  country  all  he  can. 

Nor  offer  the  life  for  freedom  spent 

The  scoff  of  a  costly  monument, 

Well  may  he  make  a  bitter  moan 

When  he  asks  for  bread  and  you  give  a  stone, 

And  scatter  your  money  on  worn-out  rags, 

Not  on  the  men  who  carried  the  flags ! 


AGAIN. 

COME,  gently  breathing  o'er  the  eager  land, 
With  fresh  green  grass  that  springs  to  kiss  thy  feet 
With  little  brooks  that  sparkle  in  the  sand, 
April's  faint  shining,  clouds  both  soft  and  fleet, 
All  the  fair  things  that  do  thine  advent  greet, 
Flowers  with  their  blue  eyes  still  by  snow-drifts  wet, 
South  winds  and  flying  showers ;   all,  all,  how  sweet, 
Could  I  forget! 

Spill  from  thy  white  hands  all  the  tender  buds, 
An  opal  mist  in  every  gray  old  tree ; 
Pour  from  thine  urn  the  rushing  silver  floods 
That  leap,  and  dance,  and  struggle  to  be  free ; 
Coax  the  pink  May-blooms  to  look  up  at  thee, 
Fearless  of  stormy  wind  or  frosts  that  fret ; 
Enchantress,  bring  not  back  the  past  to  me, 
Let  me  forget ! 

Alas !  when  all  thy  spells  but  hide  a  sting, 
When  the  wild  blossoms  in  each  fragile  bell 
A  lurking  drop  of  bitter  honey  bring, 
When  hills  and  forests  one  worn  story  tell, 
When  through  the  birds'  new  warble  sounds  a  knell, 
When  grief  and  sweetness  are  in  all  things  met, 
When  winds  repeat  those  voices  loved  too  well, 
Can  I  forget  ? 


COLUMBINE.  145 

Poor  pangs  of  earth  !     I  know  there  comes  a  day, 
Not  far  nor  late,  when  God's  restoring  Spring 
Shall  set  aside  these  miracles  of  clay, 
And  His  serene  immortal  Summer  bring, 
Wherein  I  shall  not  pine  for  anything, 
Not  mortal  love,  nor  loss,  nor  weak  regret, 
But  at  His  feet  my  grateful  rapture  sing, 
And  so  forget  ! 


COLUMBINE. 


LITTLE  dancing  harlequin ! 
Thou  thy  scarlet  bells  dost  ring 
When  the  merry  western  wind 
Gives  their  slender  stems  a  swing ; 
Every  yellow  butterfly. 
Poising  on  the  fragrant  air : 
Glittering  insects  everywhere, 
Moths  that  in  the  dead  leaves  lie, 
List  the  tinkling  chime  that  tells 
Of  the  Spring's  aerial  spells. 

In  the  long  and  shining  days 
May-time  brings  to  mother  Earth, 


146  POEMS. 

From  the  stony  crevices 
Dry  with  sun  and  grey  with  dearth, 
Where  no  other  bloom  can  cling, 
Thou  dost  lift  thy  dainty  spire, 
Slight  and  subtle  mist  of  fire 
O'er  the  rock  face  shimmering, 
Nodding,  swaying,  scattering  wide 
Flame  and  gold  on  every  side. 

No  faint  odor  fills  thy  cup  : 
Nothing  knowest  thou  but  cheer. 
Over  thee  no  memory 
Floats  its  pennant  sad  and  dear. 
Gay  and  fleeting  as  is  laughter, 
Or  a  little  joyful  song 
Wandering  the  woods  along, 
That  no  echo  cometh  after : 
Idle  moth  and  strenuous  bee 
Know  what  honey  dwells  in  thee. 

When  thy  motley  opens  wide, 
Then  the  summer  draweth  near ; 
Then  the  sunshine  shall  abide, 
Vanished  is  the  winter  fear. 
Snowdrifts  never  come  again 
When  thou  standest  sentinel, 
Shouting  gayly  :  "  All  is  well," 
To  the  blooms  on  hill  and  plain 
Summer-bringing  columbine, 
Make  thy  happy  errand  mine ! 


'47 


RIGHTS. 


I  HEARD  a  voice  cry  through  the  night, 
Crying  from  off  some  lonely  height, 
A  gently  earnest  cry  for  Right. 

Through  the  sad  sweetness  of  that  voice 

A  stifled  echo  did  rejoice, 

As  if  the  sadness  were  of  choice. 

And  all  along  the  south-wind  spread, 
With  scents  and  dews  its  tones  were  shed, 
Shadowed  with  vagueness,  not  with  dread. 

But  gathering  more  articulate, 
Breathless  I  heard  soft  lips  relate 
The  grievance  of  their  mortal  state. 

"  I  will  have  Right !  my  right  to  be 
First  in  all  love-borne  ministry ; 
The  spring  beneath  thy  roots,  O  tree ! 

"  My  right,  when  toiling  and  dismay 
Oppress  the  burdened  noon  of  day, 
To  freshen  it  with  salt  sea-spray. 


148  POEMS. 

"  To  be,  when  hearts  shall  fail  for  fear, 
Seeing  eclipse  of  suns  draw  near, 
A  star-shine  in  the  darkness  clear. 

"  To  be,  in  this  world-beaten  dust, 
A  still  evangelist  of  trust, 
Waving  white  wings  before  the  just. 

"  My  right  to  stand  beside  the  dead, 
With  hands  upon  the  living  head, 
Both  unto  rest  eternal  led. 

"  My  right  to  pure  child-tears  and  smiles, 
To  baby-love  and  tender  wiles, 
Hope,  that  the  weariest  heart  beguiles. 

"  I  will  not  have  thy  place,  O  man ! 
By  petronel  and  barbican, 
Or  reeking  in  the  battle's  van. 

"  My  strength  against  the  ruder  foe, 
I  will  be  thine  beneath  the  blow, 
My  right  to  love,  and  thine  to  know." 


149 


MARY,  THE    MOTHER  OF  THE  LORD. 

A    PICTURE. 

STANDING  in  the  temple  door, 
Sunshine,  streaming  to  the  floor, 
Falls  across  thy  stainless  veil, 
Lingers  on  thy  forehead  pale. 
Thee  nor  sun  nor  star  can  brighten, 
Thee  no  mortal  flame  enlighten, 
All  the  light  of  highest  heaven 
To  thine  inmost  soul  is  given  ; 
Thee  beloved,  by  Thine  adored  — 
Mary,  Mother  of  the  Lord  ! 

Maiden  dream  of  mother  love 
Broods  thy  drooping  eyes  above, 
Maiden  hands  with  mother  grasp 
Hold  thy  doves  in  tender  clasp, 
Awe  and  glory  in  thy  face 
Veil  the  woman's  shrinking  grace, 
Calm  as  angels  rapt  in  prayer, 
Blessed  more  than  seraphs  are, 
Yet  a  woman,  fair  and  weak, 
Bringing  up  thine  offerings  meek, 


150  POEMS. 

Love  fulfilling  Law's  behest, 
Sacrifices  on  thy  breast, 
On  thy  lips  Love's  sweetest  word  — 
Mary,  "  Mother  "  of  the  Lord  ! 

Judah's  crown  thy  forehead  wears, 
Judah's  curse  thy  sad  heart  bears ; 
Through  thy  soul  the  sword  is  driven 
When  thy  keenest  joy  is  given  ; 
Deep  and  dark  the  Cross's  shade 
On  thy  dark,  deep  eyes  is  laid  ; 
On  thy  sweet  and  pensive  lips 
Rapture  glows  through  grief's  eclipse, 
Stilled  with  mystery's  silent  spell, 
Thrilled  with  thoughts  no  speech  may  tell. 
Past  the  sense  of  human  sadness, 
Past  the  dreams  of  human  gladness, 
On  thy  heart  the  Living  Word, 
In  thy  home  the  Babe  adored  ; 
Hail !  thou  Mother  of  the  Lord. 


PRAYER. 


OH,  Love  divine,  ineffable  ! 

Help  the  weak  heart  that  strays  from  thee  ! 
And  battling  with  the  hosts  of  hell, 

Doubts  or  despairs  of  victory  : 

For  Thou  hast  died  upon  the  tree, 
Thine  anguish  poured  in  bloody  sweat, 
And  can  thy  yearning  heart  forget 

The  first-fruits  of  that  agony  ? 

O  Lord,  in  glory,  think  on  me ! 

Thy  tenderness  no  mother  knows, 
Not  she  who  sees  her  darling  pine, 

And  weeps  that  dying  shadows  close 
Above  the  lamb  she  knows  is  thine ; 
But  Thou,  my  God,  art  all  divine  ! 

Thy  banished  shall  return  again ; 

Thy  life  poured  out  like  summer  rain  — 
Those  dying  pangs  exchanged  for  mine  — 
Are  not  an  alien's  birth-right  sign. 

I  know  that  from  the  depths  of  sin, 

The  uttermost  abyss  of  woe, 
Thine  arm  my  trembling  soul  shall  win, 

Thy  piercing  eyes  thy  child  shall  know. 

Though  mortal  love  forget  to  flow  — 


152  POEMS. 

Though  mortal  faith  grow  cold  and  die  — 

Thy  love  is  called  eternity, 

Thy  truth  is  morning's  orient  glow, 
And  wide  as  space  shall  ever  grow. 

Come,  prince  of  darkness,  with  thy  bands  ! 
Their  leaguered  host  a  child  defies, 

For  He  who  holds  me  in  his  hands 
Shall  like  a  stern  avenger  rise, 
And  turn  on  thee  those  heavenly  eyes 

That  tears  of  pity  shed  for  me  ; 

But  burn  with  judgment  over  thee 

And  those  who  dare  his  love  despise,  — 
Then  stoop  and  bear  me  to  the  skies. 


NOW. 

"  Quand  on  est  mart  c^est  pour  long-temps." 

WHEN  I  am  lying  pale  and  dead, 
Come  not,  dear  friends,  around  my  bed 
And  pour  your  loss  in  deafened  ears 
And  wash  my  heedless  face  with  tears. 
What  thrill  of  hope  or  tenderness 
Will  beat  beneath  my  burial  dress  ? 
What  look  of  gratitude  arise. 
And  lift  the  lids  of  sightless  eyes  ? 


NOW.  153 

What  loving  voice  escape  those  lips, 
From  which  no  speech  or  language  slips  ? 
Alas  !  I  cannot  rouse  and  say  : 
"  If  ye  lament  me  I  will  stay." 
Speak  while  I  hear,  and  while  I  long 
To  feel  your  love  is  true  and  strong, 
While  peace  can  soothe  my  troubled  brow, 
Wait  not  to  miss  me ;  hold  me  now ! 

Set  not  your  kisses  on  my  cheek, 

Nor  on  my  mouth,  too  cold  to  speak ; 

And  in  your  fruitless  grief  forbear 

To  shed  their  sweetness  on  my  hair. 

In  life  I  long  to  feel  their  breath, 

But  what  are  kisses  worth  to  Death  ? 

Like  blossoms  dropped  on  ice  and  snow, 

Like  songs  when  howling  tempests  blow, 

A  wasted  gift,  a  vain  caress 

That  might  have  been  a  power  to  bless, 

A  longing  answered  all  in  vain, 

A  touch  that  Death  must  needs  disdain 

That  might  a  life  with  joy  endow, 

Oh !  if  you  kiss  me,  kiss  me  now. 

Remember  not  when  I  am  gone 
The  deeds  I  did  or  would  have  done, 
How  much  I  loved,  how  vainly  strove 
To  find  an  answer  in  your  love ; 
Nor  weep  to  think  what  loss  is  yours, 
Since  neither  life  nor  love  endures ; 


154  POEMS. 

Say  not  with  tears  and  cries  and  prayers ; 
"  Would  that  we  showed  her  tenderer  cares, 
Had  patience  with  the  faults  we  knew, 
Clung  to  the  heart  so  warm  and  true, 
That  now  we  weep  with  hopeless  pain, 
And  know  will  never  come  again." 
Ah  !  breathe  not  then  the  useless  vow  ; 
But  if  you  love  me,  love  me  now. 

Nor,  standing  round  my  wintry  grave, 
Too  late  to  serve  me  or  to  save, 
Fling  on  it  all  you  have  to  give ; 
"  At  last  her  follies  we  forgive !" 
An  angel  might  repel  with  scorn 
Such  speech  of  poor  repentance  born, 
Might  weep  to  see  such  Levite  pride 
Pass  coldly  by  a  coffin's  side. 
No!  if  within  your  hearts  there  be 
A  kind  but  slumbering  thought  of  me, 
A  memory  of  the  vanished  past, 
A  hope  of  peace  and  love  at  last, 
A  speechless  prayer,  a  silent  sense 
That  sometimes  speaks  in  my  defense, 
That  says :  "  Our  life  is  not  too  long, 
And  we,  perhaps,  were  sometimes  wrong." 
Ah !  listen  to  that  pleading  voice 
And  bid  a  living  heart  rejoice. 
If  late  remorse  or  grief  allow 
Forgiveness  then,  forgive  me  now. 


155 


NONNETTES. 

(SANGUINARIA    CANADENSIS.) 

WHEN  April  woods  are  all  in  bud, 

And  soft  the  south-winds  blow : 

When  rushing  brooks  are  bright  with  flood, 

And  hill-tops  bare  of  snow. 

Then  in  the  forests'  lonely  glades, 
The  careless  blue-birds  see 
A  crowd  of  white-capped  little  maids 
Rise  from  their  nunnery. 

Each  cell  a  dark  and  wrinkled  leaf, 
Close  folded  from  the  sun  ; 
Keeps  sweet  novitiate,  cool  and  brief, 
For  every  tiny  nun. 

More  white  than  milk  that  flows  and  foams, 
They  lift  their  placid  heads, 
Safe  in  their  rough  and  rocky  homes, 
Amid  these  leaf-strewn  beds. 

No  trace  of  passion  or  of  pain, 
Across  their  brows  is  drawn  ; 
They  bow  not  to  the  sun  or  rain, 
Nor  turn  to  meet  the  dawn. 


156  POEMS. 

Yet  dare  to  pluck  one  bud  away 
Where  that  pure  conclave  grows, 
From  the  chill  stem  you  make  your  prey, 
What  scarlet  life-blood  flows ! 

Dear  little  Sisters  of  the  Snow, 
Beneath  your  virgin  veil 
What  hidden  fires  of  passion  glow 
To  mock  that  drapery  pale  ! 

And  we  who  gather,  scant  of  ruth, 
Your  blossoms  cold  and  fair, 
Pluck  also  some  sad,  hidden  truth, 
That  startles  us  to  prayer. 


A    MEMORY. 


ONLY  a  little  verdant  lane, 

Where  odorous  pine-trees  quiver, 

And  every  breeze  that  softly  blows 

Makes  the  lithe  aspens  shiver; 

A  whisper  scarce  the  ear  hath  heard, 

For  such  a  song  of  brook  and  bird. 


A    MEMORY.  157 

Only  a  bit  of  mother  Earth, 

Set  thick  with  flowers  and  grasses, 

Where  leaves  are  green  and  violets  blue 

And  the  light  south-wind  passes, 

A  summer  sweetness  in  the  air, 

And  summer's  music  everywhere. 

It  looks  a  trysting  place  to  be 
Where  lovers  true  might  wander, 
Or  on  divine  philosophy 
Some  saintly  dreamer  ponder. 
A  fair  and  peaceful  solitude, 
Where  nothing  evil  dare  intrude. 

Yet  terror  fills  my  secret  soul, 
And  June  is  like  December, 
Whenever  by  that  path  I  pass, 
Whenever  I  remember 
The  dread,  the  anguish,  the  despair, 
That  filled  my  tortured  spirit  there. 

Far  rather  would  I  see  the  fires 

Of  earth's  most  savage  mountain; 

Or  tread  the  desert's  fatal  sands, 

Or  drink  its  bitterest  fountain, 

Than  those  green  woods,  those  blossoms  sweet, 

Or  the  cold  brooklet  at  their  feet. 

Ah !  cruel  records  keeps  the  earth, 
On  her  broad  bosom  sleeping; 


158  POEMS. 

Her  face  is  writ  with  scars  of  woe, 
Her  blossoms  wet  with  weeping 
The  loveliest  spot  she  hath  may  be 
Some  lonely  soul's  Gethsemane. 

Thank  God,  she  will  not  always  last! 
There  will  be  some  to-morrow, 
When  all  her  memories  shall  be  gone, 
Her  record,  and  her  sorrow ; 
When  He  who  made  her  shall  restore 
Her  pure  and  primal  state  once  more. 

STRATTON  BROOK,  July  24th,  1872. 


A   FAIRY   FLIGHT. 


A  FAIRY  lived  in  a  lily  bell, 

Ring,  swing,  columbine ! 

In  frosts  she  stole  a  wood-snail's  shell 

Till  soft  the  sun  should  shine, 

And  Spring-time  come  again,  my  dear : 

And  Spring-time  come  again ; 

With  rattling  showers  and  frighted  flowers 

And  bristling  blades  of  grain. 


A    FAIRY    FLIGHT.  159 

And  oh  !  the  lily  bell  was  sweet, 

Ring,  sing,  columbine ! 

But  the  snail  shell  pinched  her  little  feet, 

And  the  sun  was  slow  to  shine. 

It's  long  till  Spring-time  comes,  my  dear, 

Till  Spring-time  comes  again  : 

The  year  delays,  the  winter  stays, 

And  whitens  hill  and  plain. 

The  fairy  caught  a  butterfly, 

Swing,  cling,  columbine ! 

The  last  that  dared  to  float  and  fly, 

When  pale  the  sun  did  shine : 

For  Spring  is  slow  to  come,  my  dear, 

Is  slow  to  come  again. 

And  far  away  doth  Summer  stay 

Beyond  the  roaring  main. 

She  mounted  on  her  painted  steed, 

Ring,  cling,  columbine  ! 

And  well  he  served  that  fairy's  need, 

And  warm  the  sun  did  shine. 

The  Spring  she  followed  fast,  my  dear, 

She  followed  it  amain ; 

Where  blossoms  throng  the  whole  year  long, 

She  found  the  Spring  again ! 

Oh,  fairy  sweet !  come  back  once  more, 
Ring,  swing,  columbine. 
When  grass  is  green  on  hill  and  shore 
And  summer  sunbeams  shine. 


l6o  POEMS. 

What  if  the  Spring  is  late,  my  dear, 
And  comes  with  dropping  rain  ? 
When  roses  blow  and  rivers  flow, 
Come  back  to  us  again  ! 


IN   VAIN. 


PUT  every  tiny  robe  away ! 
The  stitches  all  were  set  with  tears, 
Slow,  tender  drops  of  joy;  to-day 
Their  rain  would  wither  hopes  or  fears : 
Bitter  enough  to  daunt  the  moth 
That  longs  to  fret  this  dainty  cloth. 

The  filmy  lace,  the  ribbons  blue, 
The  tracery  deft  of  flower  and  leaf, 
The  fairy  shapes  that  bloomed  and  grew 
Through  happy  moments  all  too  brief. 
The  warm  soft  wraps.     Oh  God !  how  cold 
It  must  be  in  that  wintry  mold ! 

Fold  carefully  the  broidered  wool : 
Its  silken  wreaths  will  ne'er  grow  old, 
And  lay  the  linen  soft  and  cool 
Above  it  gently  fold  on  fold. 


IN   VAIN.  l6l 

So  lie  the  snows  on  that  soft  breast, 
Where  mortal  garb  will  never  rest. 

How  many  days  in  dreamed  delight, 
With  listless  fingers,  working  slow, 
I  fashioned  them  from  morn  till  night 
And  smiled  to  see  them  slowly  grow. 
I  thought  the  task  too  late  begun ; 
Alas !  how  soon  it  all  was  done ! 

Go  lock  them  in  a  cedar  chest, 
And  never  bring  me  back  the  key  ! 
Will  hiding  lay  this  ghost  to  rest, 
Or  the  turned  lock  give  peace  to  me  ? 
No  matter !  —  only  that  I  dread 
Lest  other  eyes  behold  my  dead. 

I  would  have  laid  them  in  that  grave 
To  perish  too,  like  any  weed ; 
But  legends  tell  that  they  who  save 
Such  garments,  ne'er  the  like  will  need : 
But  give  or  burn  them,  —  need  will  be ; 
1  want  but  one  such  memory ! 


162 


THE    FIR   TREE. 

HEAR'ST  thou  the  song  it  sings  to  me  ? 

The  endless  song  of  the  dark  fir  tree. 

Before  my  window,  beside  my  door, 

It  sighs  and  whispers  forevermore. 

By  dawn,  or  daylight,  or  night's  mid-hour, 

I  hear  its  still  small  voice  of  power. 

"  Eternity  !     Eternity  !" 
Is  the  hourly  message  it  brings  to  me. 

When  I  am  weary  and  worn  with  pain, 
And  the  burning  sunshine  fires  my  brain, 
Faint,  and  listless,  and  fit  for  death, 
It  swings  and  rustles  with  fragrant  breath  : 
"  Hot  and  lonely  thy  noon  may  be, 
But  there  is  a  long,  long  rest  for  thee : 

Eternity !     Eternity !" 
This  is  the  psalm  of  the  old  fir  tree. 

Sometimes  the  storms  of  Summer  pour, 
The  lightnings  dazzle,  the  thunders  roar; 
Those  dark  boughs  groan,  and  writhe,  and  sway. 
But  sighing  and  moaning  still  they  say  : 
"  An  end  to  the  tempests  of  earth  shall  be ; 
A  tranquil  morning  awaiteth  thee  — 

Eternity !     Eternity  ! 
Beyond  this  fateful  and  angry  sea." 


THE    FIR   TREE.  163 

When  Winter  hath  scattered  leaf  and  rose, 
And  the  boughs  bend  low  with  heavy  snows, 
Their  patient  drooping  a  lesson  lends, 
To  a  life  borne  down  with  the  care  He  sends. 
"  Bend  to  thy  burden  !  awhile  for  thee 
The  weight  and  the  wear  of  toil  must  be. 

Eternity !     Eternity 
From  care  and  carking  shall  set  thee  free." 

If  the  ways  of  man  my  spirit  vex, 
And  the  ways  of  God  my  soul  perplex, 
When  He  hath  taken  my  life's  desire, 
And  molten  my  heart  in  his  fining  fire ; 
When  the  dearest  eyes  I  cannot  see, 
And  the  voice  I  longed  for  is  dead  to  me : 
"  Wait !  for  thy  longing  shall  find  the  key ; 

Eternity  !     Eternity  ! 

There  shall  the  dayspring  come  back  to  thee," 
Softly  singeth  the  dark  fir  tree. 

When  I  shall  sleep  in  my  quiet  grave, 
Oh  kindly  fir  tree,  above  me  wave ! 
Utter  thine  anthems  to  one  who  grieves 
Under  thy  shining,  singing  leaves  : 
Keep  thy  faith  like  the  fadeless  tree ! 
Tender  and  true  let  memory  be. 

Eternity !     Eternity ! 
There  thy  lost  love  is  waiting  for  thee !" 
Blest  be  thy  music,  oh  dark  fir  tree  ! 
And  blessed  the  Maker  who  fashioned  thee ! 


i64 


INDOLENCE. 


INDOLENT,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent ; 

So  is  the  grass  growing  tenderly,  slowly ; 

So  is  the  violet  fragrant  and  lowly, 
Drinking  in  quietness,  peace,  and  content ; 

So  is  the  bird  on  the  light  branches  swinging, 

Idly  his  carol  of  gratitude  singing, 
Only  on  living  and  loving  intent. 

Indolent,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent ; 

So  is  the  cloud  overhanging  the  mountain ; 

So  is  the  tremulous  wave  of  a  fountain, 
Uttering  softly  its  silvery  psalm. 

Nerve  and  sensation  in  quiet  reposing, 

Silent  as  blossoms  the  night-dew  is  closing, 
But  the  full  heart  beating  strongly  and  calm. 

Indolent,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent, 
If  it  be  idle  to  gather  my  pleasure 
Out  of  creation's  uncoveted  treasure, 

Midnight  and  morning,  by  forest  and  sea, 
Wild  with  the  tempest's  sublime  exultation, 
Lonely  in  Autumn's  forlorn  lamentation, 

Hopeful  and  happy  with  Spring  and  the  bee. 


NOCTURN.  165 

Indolent,  indolent !  are  ye  not  indolent  ? 
Thralls  of  the  earth  and  its  usages  weary, 
Toiling  like  gnomes  where  the  darkness  is  dreary, 

Toiling  and  sinning  to  heap  up  your  gold ! 
Stifling  the  heavenward  breath  of  devotion, 
Crushing  the  freshness  of  every  emotion  ; 

Hearts  like  the  dead  which  are  pulseless  and  cold ! 

Indolent,  indolent !  art  thou  not  indolent  ? 
Thou  who  art  living  unloving  and  lonely, 
Wrapped  in  a  pall  that  will  cover  thee  only, 

Shrouded  in  selfishness,  piteous  ghost ! 

Sad  eyes  behold  thee,  and  angels  are  weeping 
O'er  thy  forsaken  and  desolate  sleeping; 

Art  thou  not  indolent  ?  art  thou  not  lost  ? 


NOCTURN. 

I. 

NIGHT  hovering  o'er  the  languid  lily-bell, 

Pours  shade  and  sleep  ; 
Dim  loitering  brooks  their  dripping  rosaries  tell ; 

And  shadows  creep, 

Like  ghosts  that  haunt  a  dream,  through  forests  still 
and  deep. 


1 66 


POEMS. 


Cool  odors  sigh  across  the  rustling  leaves 

In  dew  distilled ; 
Far  through  the  hills  some  falling  river  grieves ; 

All  earth  is  stilled, 

Save   where   a   dreaming   bird   with   sudden   song  is 
thrilled. 

The  sunshine,  tangled  in  the  chestnut  boughs, 

In  darkness  dies ; 
Flowers,  with  shut  eyelids,  pay  their  peaceful  vows, 

And  daylight  lies 
Faint  in  the  fading  West  to  see  the  stars  arise. 

Sleep,  weary  soul !  the  folding  arms  of  night 

For  thee  are  spread ; 
Her  fresh,  cool  kisses  on  thy  brow  alight ; 

Droop,  aching  head ! 

Receive  the  slumberous  dew  these  gracious  heavens 
have  shed. 

Thy  day  is  long,  thy  noontide  hot  and  sere ; 

But  eve  hath  come 
To  sing  low  anthems  in  thy  tranced  ear 

Like  welcomes  home, 
And  prelude  this  brief  sleep  with  songs  of  one  to  come. 


i67 


NOCTURN. 

ii. 

DEAR  night,  from  the  hills  return ! 

Darkness  hath  passed  away, 
And  I  see  the  flush  of  morning  burn, 

Red  o'er  the  mountains  gray. 
My  life  is  like  a  song 

That  a  bird  sings  in  its  sleeping, 
Or  a  hidden  stream  that  flows  along 

To  the  sound  of  its  own  soft  weeping. 

Sunlight  is  made  for  care, 

For  the  weary  languid  day; 
When  the  locust  cymbals  beat  the  air, 

And  the  hot  winds  cease  to  play. 
But  night  rolls  dark  and  still, 

Oblivion's  fabled  river, 
In  whose  sweet  silence  the  restless  will 

Sleeps,  and  would  sleep  forever. 

Shrill  in  the  rustled  maize 

The  boding  cricket  cries; 
And  through  the  East,  where  the  dawn  delays, 

Seaward  the  wild  duck  flies. 


168  POEMS. 

Noon  comes  with  brazen  glare, 
Stirling  earth's  song  with  splendor, 

To  drink  the  mists  from  the  glittering  air, 
And  dew  from  the  blossoms  tender. 

But  when  the  night  comes  on, 

With  cool  and  quiet  sighs, 
To  shed  fond  thoughts  on  the  soul  alone, 

And  rest  in  the  tear-stained  eyes, — 
I  lie  beneath  the  stars, 

And  life  from  their  light  is  given, 
Till  my  dreams  escape  from  mortal  wars, 

And  sleep  on  the  shore  of  heaven. 


THE   SUTTEE. 


COME,  thou  dead  image,  to  thy  rest ! 

The  flashing  embers  wait  for  thee, 
And  heaped  above  my  panting  breast 

Lie  faggots  fit  thy  couch  to  be. 

I  know  thee  now,  cold  shape  of  clay, 
Whose  life  was  but  a  thrill  from  mine  ! 

One  gasp,  and  undeceiving  day 

Showed  the  base  thing  no  more  divine. 


THE    SUTTEE.  169 

Lo !  I  have  framed  a  costly  pyre ; 

There  lie  those  dreams  with  wandering  eyes, 
And  hopes,  too  ashen  now  for  fire, 

Strew  pathways  to  the  sacrifice. 

I  am  a  widow,  and  shall  I 

Linger  a  living  death  away  ? 
Here  on  the  dead,  I,  too,  will  die, 

Quick !    lest  the  flesh  refuse  to  stay. 

Burn !  burn !  glare  upward  to  the  skies, 
Paint  the  low  hills  and  creeping  night : 

Louder  the  shrieking  south-wind  cries, 
And  terror  speeds  the  lessening  light. 

Slowly  these  eager  tongues  aspire; 

I  shudder,  though  they  set  me  free. 
Go,  coward  senses,  to  the  fire —  ,  • 

But  the  wing'd  soul,  oh  God !  to  Thee  ! 


ORIOLE. 


ORIOLE  on  the  willow-tree! 
Singing  such  melodious  measures, 
Singest  thou  of  summer  pleasures,  — 
Crimson  fields  of  honeyed  clover, 
Sweet  to  smell  in  flying  over, 
Nests  on  breezy  branches  swinging, 
Carols  in  the  soft  air  ringing, 
Bluest  sky  with  cloud  fleets  sailing, 
Food  and  shelter  never  failing, 
Life  so  rapturous  in  its  living, 
Nature  never  scant  of  giving, 
Love,  or  sorrow,  or  such  gladness, 
As  is  most  akin  to  madness  ? 
Or  for  singing,  singest  thou, 
Swayed  on  yonder  slender  bough, — 
In  thy  song  itself  delighting 
Sweet  beyond  all  poet's  writing, 
Clear  and  liquid  as  the  river 
Flowing  to  the  sea  forever, 
Glad  as  south-winds  come  in  June 
To  the  rose  asleep  at  noon  ? 
Nothing  wistful,  no  way  tender, 
Voice  of  Nature's  soulless  splendor, 


ORIOLE.  171 

Some  outpouring  of  the  flame 
Burning  in  thy  wing  and  name, 
Song  that  doth  to  heaven  aspire 
Even  as  leaping,  quivering  fire, 

Oriole  on  the  willow-tree, 

Tell  thy  fairy  tale  to  me  ! 

Then  the  oriole  laughed  again, 
Laughing  at  my  question  vain, 
As  the  brook  laughs  down  the  mountain, 
Like  the  laughter  of  a  fountain; 
Flashing  through  the  willow-tree 
Thus  the  oriole  sang  to  me :  — 
"  Restless,  sorrowing,  weak,  and  human, 
Most  of  all  a  weary  woman, 
Can  a  bird-song  on  a  tree 
Utter  any  speech  to  thee  ? 
Can  thy  soul  receive  the  gladness 
Of  a  thing  that  knows  not  sadness  ? 
Canst  thou  know,  insatiate  creature, 
All  this  mighty  joy  of  Nature  ? 
Joy  so  rich,  so  full,  so  fleeting, 
Scarce  it  lives  beyond  the  greeting; 
Joy  the  dancing  leaves  adorning, 
Glittering  in  the  dewy  morning, 
In  the  soft  winds  gayly  blowing, 
In  the  sparkling  waters  flowing, 
Utterly  intact  of  sorrow, 
Careless  for  the  distant  morrow  ; 


172  POEMS. 

Joy  that  burns  in  grace  and  beauty, 
Darkened  with  no  ghost  of  duty, 
Rapture  bright  beyond  all  loving, 
Gladness  all  dismay  reproving; 
Now  a  flame  through  verdure  flying, 
Now  like  any  swift  spark  dying; 
Nothing  tossed  by  hope  or  fear, 
Shadowed  not  by  smile  or  tear; 
Questioner  beneath  the  tree, 
Wouldst  thou  not  an  oriole  be?" 


Underneath  the  willow-tree 
Thus  the  oriole  sang  to  me. 
Ah !  what  could  I  give  for  answer 
To  this  gay  and  glad  romancer? 
Dreams  that  round  me  love  to  linger 
On  my  hot  lips  laid  a  finger, 
Dreams  that  held  me  all  unwilling, 
Dreams  most  sad  in  their  fulfilling; 
Yet  1  knew  them  dear  and  tender 
More  than  all  this  song  of  splendor; 
Dear  as  thorns  are  to  the  roses, 
Dear  as  graves  where  love  reposes ; 
Could  I  lose  them  out  of  living, 
I,  who  asked  not  for  their  giving  ? 
I,  who  on  a  weary  day 
Threw  my  dreaming  soul  away, 
Would  I  take  it  back  again, 
Pure  of  joy  and  pure  of  pain, 


A    CRY    IN    THE    NIGHT.  173 

Nevermore  to  thrill  or  languish, 
Nevermore  to  throb  with  anguish, 
Ne'er  earth's  dread  delight  to  prove, 
Nevermore  to  live,  —  or  love  ? 

Oriole  on  the  willow-tree, 

I  must  still  a  woman  be ! 


A    CRY   IN   THE    NIGHT. 


MY  darling !  my  darling !  the  midnight  is  here, 
To  stifle  and  tempt  me  with  longing  and  fear : 
I  hear  through  the  darkness  thy  sweet  little  voice, 
Like  birds  in  their  nest  that  in  slumber  rejoice. 

My  darling!  my  darling!  a  long  night  hath  come, 
I  am  straying  alone  in  the  ashes  of  home, 
Its  echoes  of  love  and  their  answers  of  peace, 
All  voices  that  blessed  me  in  solitude  cease. 

I  gave  them  my  life  as  the  Father  gives  air; 
I  gave  them  my  love  without  stint  or  compare. 
They  used  them,  —  and  left  me  to  die  by  the  way ! 
My  darling,  my  love  !  thou  art  kinder  than  they 


174  POEMS. 

From  thee  in  thy  blossom  the  sweetness  of  dawn, 
Its  truth  and  its  perfume  no  grief  hath  withdrawn 
Thou  lovest  for  love's  sake,  not  duty  nor  gain ; 
Life  hath  not  denied  thee,  nor  trouble,  nor  pain. 

Ah !  would  that  together  in  some  quiet  grave, 
Or  deep  in  the  ocean's  long  sorrowing  wave, 
Thy  tiny  arms  around  me,  thy  head  on  my  breast, 
We  two  lay  forever  in  passionless  rest. 

In  the  night  and  the  day-time  I  long  for  thy  face : 

I  dream  that  thou  liest  at  rest  in  thy  place ; 

I  waken  and  call  thee  with  piteous  prayer : 

My  darling !  my  darling !  why  art  thou  not  there  ? 

Oh  God,  when  Thou  judgest  the  false  and  the  true ! 
When  the  anguish  and  passion  of  living  are  through  ; 
I  ask  of  Thy  mercy  to  give  me  above 
This  baby  who  only  hath  answered  my  love ! 


BEST 


"  LOVE  is  better  than  house  and  lands ; 
So  Sir  Stephen  I'll  ride  with  thee." 
She  made  one  step  where  the  courser  stands, 
One  light  spring  to  the  saddle-tree. 

Love  is  better  than  kith  or  kin  : 
So  close  she  clung,  and  so  close  clasped  he. 
They  heard  no  sob  of  the  bitter  wind, 
Or  snow  that  shuddered  along  the  lea. 

Love  is  better  than  life  and  breath  : 
The  drifts  are  over  the  horse's  knee, 
Softly  they  sink  to  the  soft  white  death, 
And  the  snow-shroud  hides  them  silently. 

Houses  and  lands  are  gone  for  aye; 
Kith  and  kin  like  the  wild  wind  flee ; 
Life  and  death  have  vanished  away; 
But  love  hath  blossomed  eternally. 


i76 


JEPHTHA'S   DAUGHTER. 


And  she  said  unto  her  father,  Let  this  thing  be  done  for  me  ;  let 
me  alone  two  months,  that  I  may  go  up  and  down  upon  the  moun 
tains,  and  bewail  my  virginity. — JUDGES  xi,  37. 


ALONE,  alone  on  the  mountains,  the  mountains  wild 

and  high, 

Far  below  in  midnight  the  sleeping  cities  lie, 
Strange  and  fearful  silence !     Is  it  life  or  after-death 
That  folds  me  in  its  shadow,  and,  crushes  out  my 

breath  ? 

Far  above  is  heaven,  far  below  is  earth  : 

Heaven  with  stars  of  glory,  the  world  with  songs  of 

mirth, 

And  I  alone  between  them,  a  spirit  cold  and  gray, 
Lingering  in  the  body,  afraid  to  pass  away. 

"  Mourn  !"  says  the  wind-swept  ether.     "  Mourn  !"  the 

echoes  cry. 
"  Weep  for  the  hopes  that  perish  ;  weep  for  the  dreams 

that  die !" 

Along  the  light  horizon  a  troop  of  visions  pass 
Frail  as  wandering  shadows  the  clouds  make  on  the 
grass. 


JEPHTHA'S  DAUGHTER.         177 

Crowding  wistful  faces,  their  eyes  as  dark  as  mine, 
Over  their  loosened  tresses  the  crowns  of  Judah  shine. 

0  my  lost !  my  darlings  !  who  never  shall  be  born, 
Fading  into  glory  as  stars  fade  into  morn. 

No  soft  baby  fingers  tinged  like  an  ocean  shell, 
No  light  baby  footsteps  within  my  tent  shall  dwell; 
The  maidens  of  my  kindred  shall  know  a  mother's 

heart, 
But  Death  and  I  together  in  the  bridal  train  depart. 

Deeper  in  the  vision  I  see  a  face  divine, 
Woman-born  Redeemer  !     Hope  of  David's  line. 
Oh  !    cursed  above  all  women  !  daughter  of  dust  and 

shame ! 
Forgotten    among    Israel !     He    shall   not   bear  thy 

name. 

The    girls  who   loved  my  girlhood  come  from  the 
sleeping  plain, 

1  hear  their  mingled  voices  that  wail  my  life  in  vain. 
Lost  in  mountain  caverns,  to  them  the  echoes  sigh, 
My  soul  shall  fall  in  darkness  that  murmurs  no  reply. 

I  have  said  my  sorrow,  I  have  mourned  my  death : 
Pride  of  Judah's  princes,  uphold  my  failing  breath  ! 
A  woman's  mortal  weakness  has  had  its  mortal  sway. 
Calm  as  the  dawn  that  breaketh  my  soul  shall  glide 
awav. 


NEW   MOON. 

ONCE,  when  the  new  moon  glittered 

So  slender  in  the  West, 
I  looked  across  my  shoulder, 

And  a  wild  wish  stirred  my  breast. 

Over  my  white,  right  shoulder 
I  looked  at  the  silver  horn, 

And  wished  a  wish  at  even 
To  come  to  pass  in  the  morn. 

Whenever  the  new  moon  glittered, 

So  slender  and  so  fine, 
I  looked  across  my  shoulder, 

And  wished  that  wish  of  mine ! 

Now,  when  the  West  is  rosy, 

And  the  snow-wreaths  blush  below, 

And  I  see  the  light  white  crescent 
Float  downward,  soft  and  slow; 

I  never  look  over  my  shoulder, 
As  I  used  to  look  before; 

For  my  heart  is  older  and  colder, 
And  now  I  wish  no  more! 


A   WIND. 


SWEET  Autumn  Wind,  whose  breath  with  whispering 
flow 

Visiteth  softly  my  o'erwearied  brow ; 
Not  the  fierce  North,  whose  frosty  trumpets  blow 

Defiance  to  the  earth,  o'ercomes  me  now. 
Thou,  like  the  mists  which  soften  into  peace 

The  fading  forests,  with  thy  kiss  serene 
Givest  my  long-shut  tears  a  sweet  release, 

Yet  with  no  voice  to  ask  what  tears  may  mean. 
Gentlest  of  all  dear  Nature's  ministrants, 

Who,  laden  with  mild  odors  from  the  sea, 
Comest  at  evening  to  my  shadowy  haunts 

Rustling  as  if  a  spirit  stirred  the  tree, 
And  shed  its  dry  leaves  softly  to  the  earth, 

Take  grateful  thanks  from  me  and  sighs  more  sweet 
than  mirth. 


iSo 


DECEMBER    XXXI. 


THERE  goes  an  old  Gaffer  over  the  hill, 

Thieving,  and  old,  and  gray; 
He  walks  the  green  world,  his  wallet  to  fill, 

And  carries  good  spoil  away. 

Into  his  bag  he  popped  a  king; 

After  him  went  a  friar 
Many  a  lady,  with  gay  gold  ring, 

Many  a  knight  and  squire. 

He  carried  my  true-love  far  away, 

He  stole  the  dog  at  my  door; 
The  wicked  old  Gaffer,  thieving  and  gray 

He'll  never  come  by  any  more. 

My  little  darling,  white  and  fair, 

Sat  in  the  door  and  spun; 
He  caught  her  fast  by  her  silken  hair, 

Before  the  child  could  run. 

He  stole  the  florins  out  of  my  purse, 
The  sunshine  out  of  mine  eyes; 

He  stole  my  roses,  and,  what  is  worse, 
The  gray  old  Gaffer  told  lies. 


LOTOS-LAND.  l8l 

He  promised  fair  when  he  came  by, 
And  laughed  as  he  slipped  away, 

For  every  promise  turned  out  a  lie; 
But  his  tale  is  over  to-day. 

Good-by,  old  Gaffer!  you'll  come  no  more, 
You've  done  your  worst  for  me. 

The  next  gray  robber  will  pass  my  door, 
There's  nothing  to  steal  or  see! 


LOTOS-LAND. 


OH,  land  beloved  !    oh,  land  unknown ! 
By  what  blue  Rhine  or  rapid  Rhone, 
Or  any  river  man  hath  known, 

Shall  I  arrive  at  thee  ? 
Or  by  what  mighty  trackless  seas, 
Where  the  unwearied  northern  breeze 
From  dumb  and  frozen  caverns  flees 

Triumphant,  to  be  free. 

Or  by  what  desert,  red  and  vast, 
Breathing  the  fevered  tropic  blast, 
Shall  my  too  lingering  steps  at  last 
Attain  to  thy  sweet  shore  ? 


182  POEMS. 

Oh,  plains  serene !     Oh,  rivers  rolled 
Like  babbling  dreams  o'er  sands  of  gold ! 
Fair  birds  that  do  your  pinions  fold, 
And  singing,  cease  to  soar ! 

Skies,  where  such  slumbrous  mists  are  shed ! 
The  heart  forgets  it  ever  bled, 
And  sleep  lies  on  the  lonely  head, 

Forgetting  and  forgot. 
There  nothing  has  been  or  shall  be, 
But  all  things  are  eternally. 
The  tired  soul  may  not  think  nor  see 

Such  quiet  rules  the  spot ; 

For  there  is  neither  hope  nor  fear, 
No  hated  thing  and  nothing  dear, 
Nor  any  troubled  atmosphere, 

Nor  anything  but  rest. 
Such  utter  sleep,  such  thoughtlessness, 
As  might  a  mortal  life  redress 
And  set  aside  its  deadly  stress, 

From  even  a  woman's  breast. 

Oh,  land,  dear  land!  sweet  visioned  shore, 
That  no  man's  footsteps  may  explore, 
Nor  any  but  a  fool  deplore, 

Yet  would  I  slept  in  thee! 
The  jester  tires  of  cap  and  bells, 
The  disenchanted  laughs  at  spells, 
The  past  all  future  lies  foretells. 

Dear  land,  come  true  for  me! 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    HERODIAS. 

Lo,  mother !  it  is  here  —  thou  hast  thy  will : 
My  work  is  done,  my  heart  is  stained  with  blood, 
My  hands  are  full  of  it ;  the  sky  is  red ; 
From  sea  to  sea  the  land  is  red  to  me ; 
The  sun  is  blood. 

Mother,  I  danced  for  Herod. 
I  hung  a  shining  garment  on  these  limbs, 
I  bound  my  heavy  hair  with  scarlet  flowers, 
And  on  my  ancles  tied  the  silver  bells 
That  tinkled  to  my  shame.     Oh,  cursed  robes ! 
Oh,  cursed  head !     I  would  its  crown  were  heaped 
With  dust  and  ashes  ;  trodden  under  foot, 
The  scorn  of  men.     Yea,  I  would  have  the  sea 
Lash  all  its  raging  waves  above  my  brow, 
To  hide  me  from  myself. 

Listen,  Herodias! 

I  pleased  thy  husband's  brother,  and  he  swore 
I  should  have  what  I  would,  for  such  a  show 
No  guerdon  were  too  great.     I  heard  thy  words 
Go  hissing  through  my  brain  :  I  saw  thine  eyes, 
As  when  I  left  thee,  gleam  with  lurid  fire  — 
"  Revenge '."  I  cried,  "  Give  me  the  Baptist's  head !" 


184  POEMS. 

There  went  a  cloud  across  my  uncle's  brow, 
He  paused,  and  some  sweet  pity  in  his  heart 
Pleaded  for  John ;  but  I  —  I  forced  him  on  ; 
I  think  the  very  devil  of  the  Jews 
Spake  for  me,  since  I  know  not  what  I  said. 
Still  he  grew  sad ;  and  then  the  guests  began 
To  press  his  oath  upon  him,  so  at  last 
He  sent  his  Lybian  slave  to  bring  that  head, 
And,  passing  from  the  chamber,  left  me  there 
To  wait ;  not  long,  they  brought  it  very  soon. 
Look  there !  is  it  enough  ?  have  I  done  well  ? 
Oh,  take  it !  take  it !  else  those  pallid  lips 
Will  speak  my  soul's  damnation ;  send  it  hence 
Before  those  glassy  eyes  look  through  my  heart 
With  fearful  accusation. 

Ah !  it  shivers  ! 

It  surely  moves  —  mother,  do  dead  men  live  ? 
—  A  phantom  of  my  brain  ;  am  I  then  crazed  ? 
I  am,  to  call  thee  by  the  tender  name 
And  loving  sound  of  "  mother."     I  was  crazed 
To  do  thy  bidding ;  and  when  death  itself 
Stares  in  my  face  with  close  unwinking  eyes, 
You  tell  me,  in  a  quiet  voice,  to  sleep ! 
Why,  should  you  tie  me  to  a  bed  of  down, 
Or  lay  these  weary  limbs  along  the  turf 
Of  cool  Libanus,  where  a  thousand  springs 
Went  dropping  by  my  pillow,  I  should  wake. 
I  never  more  shall  sleep  —  not  with  the  dead, 
For  I  shall  dream  of  judgment  in  my  grave. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS.         185 

But,  Hark,  Herodias!  thou  didst  plan  the  murder; 

There  is  a  reckoning  somewhere  kept  for  thee. 

For  this,  thy  sleep  shall  be  disturbed  with  groans; 

For  this,  thy  waking  shall  be  cold  with  fear ; 

For  this,  the  voiceless  spangles  of  the  night 

Shall  look  upon  thee  with  the  Baptist's  eyes ; 

His  deathful  smile  shall  flicker  in  the  fire ; 

His  rigid  hand  shall  draw  the  curtain  back, 

At  midnight,  from  thy  couch ;  the  very  winds 

Shall  take  his  voice  to  bid  thee  think  of  him. 

And  when  thou  liest  at  the  festal  board, 

The  wine  that  fills  thy  cup  shall  turn  to  blood ; 

The  cooling  snow  from  virgin  Caucasus 

Shall  burn  with  crimson.     Yea,  the  face  thou  lovest, 

The  face  of  Herod,  shall  be  turned  to  his, 

And  with  the  livid  pallor  of  the  grave, 

Stare  from  his  throne. 

Alas  !  my  life  is  dead. 

My  days  are  withered.     Had  I  tears  to  spare, 
They  were  for  thee,  Herodias ;  but  mine  eyes 
Are  dry  as  desert  sands.     Go  while  thou  canst. 
Exult  in  thy  revenge ;  but  dread  thy  doom. 


i86 


IN   THE    HOSPITAL. 


How  the  wind  yells  on  the  Gulf  and  prairie ! 

How  it  rattles  in  the  windows  wide ! 
And  the  rats  squeak  like  our  old  ship's  rigging 

I  shall  die  with  the  turn  of  tide. 

I've  had  a  rough  life  on  the  ocean 

And  a  tough  life  on  the  land ; 
Now  I'm  like  a  broken  hulk  in  the  dock-yard,- 

I  can't  stir  foot  nor  hand. 

There  are  green  trees  in  the  Salem  graveyard ; 

By  the  meeting-house  steps  they  grow ; 
And  there  they  put  my  poor  old  mother, 

The  third  in  the  leeward  row. 

There's  the  low  red  house  on  the  corner, 
With  a  slant  roof  and  a  well-sweep  behind, 

And  yellow-headed  fennel  in  the  garden, — 
How  I  see  it  when  I  go  blind ! 

I  wish  I  had  a  mug  of  cold  water 

From  the  bottom  of  that  old  curb-well. 

I  wish  my  mother's  face  was  here  alongside, 
While  I  hear  that  tolling  bell ! 


A    ROSARY.  187 

There's  a  good  crop  of  corn  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  biggest  boy  a'n't  there  to  hoe ; 

They'll  get  in  the  apples  and  the  pumpkins, 
But  I've  done  my  last  chores  below. 

Don't  you  hear  the  Norther  risin',  doctor  ? 

How  it  yells  and  hollers,  far  and  wide ! 
And  the  moon's  a  shinin'  on  that  graveyard,  — 

Hold  on !     I'm  agoin'  with  the  tide. 


A    ROSARY. 


ROSES,  roses,  roses, 
All  the  world  over; 

Daisies  in  the  mowing, 
On  the  hill-side  clover; 

But  the  sweet  sad  roses 
And  the  mad  bee-lover 
Come  in  June. 

Roses,  roses,  roses, 

Red  in  the  grasses, 
Snowy  in  the  garden. 


l88  POEMS. 


When  the  hot  sun  passes 
Then  the  singing  summer  dies, 
And  snow  the  rose  surpasses, 
In  the  moon. 

Oh,  the  fair  sad  roses! 

Sad  for  their  loving, 
Left  alone  to  rain-drops, 

When  the  bee  goes  roving, 
And  their  honey-sweet  lips 

To  no  long  kiss  moving, 
Only  die ! 

Oh,  the  love-red  roses! 

With  their  golden  centres, 
Sweeter  than  spices  ; 

Where  the  south-wind  enters, 
And  on  the  bee's  track 

The  butterfly  ventures 
With  his  lie! 


i8g 


GRAY. 


IN  the  dead  calm  of  night,  when  the  stars  are  all  shining, 
The  deep,  silent  shadows  lie  cold  o'er  my  head, 

And  the  wind,  like  a  sad  spirit,  round  the  house  pining, 
Calls  up  from  their  quiet  the  tones  of  the  dead. 

Almost  I  can  see  them  who  rustle  the  curtain, 
And  flit  past  my  cheek  like  a  cold  waft  of  air ; 

I  hear  their  faint  sighs  and  their  footsteps  uncertain, 
I  need  not  a  vision  to  know  they  are  there. 

They  call  from  the  past  all  its  bitterest  warnings, 

And  trail  the  gray  ghosts  through  my  shuddering  soul, 

The  nights  of  lone  grief  and  the  desolate  mornings, 
The  long  days  of  anguish  that  mocked  my  control. 

Then  comes  the  still  angel  who  watches  me  ever, 
And  numbers  the  tears  of  my  sleepless  despair, 

And  for  each  sullen  drop  that  assuages  its  fever, 
The  angel  stoops  softly,  and  kisses  my  hair. 

And  at  dawn  I  perceive  in  those  shadowy  tresses 
Bright  silvery  threads,  as  they  fall  o'er  my  breast, 

And  I  know  where  the  angel  has  left  his  caresses, 
A  promise  and  pledge  that  he  hastens  my  rest. 


igo 


IN    PART. 


IN  part  we  prophesy.     The  restless  heart 

Sees,  through  the  veil  of  this  mysterious  life, 
Some  shadows  of  the  life  to  come  —  a  part 
Dimly  drawn  out.     As  by  some  painter's  art 

Lines,  tints,  and  touches,  seemingly  at  strife, 
Resolve  to  fitness  and  to  beauty  start, 

From  deepest  chaos,  so  the  flitting  dreams 
That  come  like  stingings  of  Ithuriel's  dart, 

Wakening  the  sleeping  soul  from  that  which  seems 
To  that  which  is,  and  bridging  o'er  the  streams 

That  part  us  from  ourselves,  shall  yet  become 

Familiar  as  realities  of  home  : 
And  welcome  us,  like  some  dear  natural  voice, 
To  that  transcendent  life  where  we  shall  yet  rejoice. 


AT    LAST. 


THE  old,  old  story  o'er  again  — 
Made  up  of  passion,  parting,  pain. 
He  fought  and  fell,  to  live  in  fame, 
But  dying  only  breathed  her  name. 

Some  tears,  most  sad  and  innocent ; 
Some  rebel  thoughts,  but  all  unmeant ; 
Then,  with  a  silent,  shrouded  heart, 
She  turned  to  life  and  played  her  part. 

Another  man,  who  vowed  and  loved, 
Her  patient,  pitying  spirit  moved, 
Sweet  hopes  the  dread  of  life  beguiled,  — 
The  lost  love  sighed,  —  the  new  love  smiled. 

So  she  was-  wed  and  children  bore, 
And  then  her  widowed  sables  wore  ; 
Her  eyes  grew  dim,  her  tresses  gray, 
And  dawned  at  length  her  dying  day. 

Her  children  gather,  —  some  are  gone, 
Asleep  beneath  a  lettered  stone ; 
The  living,  cold  with  grief  and  fear, 
Stoop  down  her  whispered  speech  to  hear. 


IQ2  TOEMS. 

No  child  she  calls,  no  husband  needs. 
At  death's  sharp  touch  the  old  wound  bleeds 
"  Call  him  !"  she  cried,  —  her  first  love's  name 
Leapt  from  her  heart  with  life's  last  flame. 


MIDNIGHT. 

THE  west-wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew, 

The  snow  hissed  cruelly, 
All  night  I  heard  the  baffled  cry 

Of  mariners  on  the  sea. 

I  saw  the  icy  shrouds  and  sail, 

The  slippery,  reeling  deck, 
And  white-caps  dancing  pale  with  flame, 

The  corpse-lights  of  the  wreck. 

The  west-wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew, 

And  on  its  snowy  way, 
That  hissed  and  hushed  like  rushing  sand, 

My  soul  fled  far  away. 

The  snow  went  toward  the  morning  hills 

In  curling  drifts  of  white, 
But  I  went  up  to  the  gates  of  God 

Through  all  the  howling  night. 


MIDNIGHT.  193 

I  went  up  to  the  gates  of  God. 

The  angel  waiting  there, 
Who  keeps  the  blood-red  keys  of  Heaven 

Stooped  down  to  hear  my  prayer. 

"  Dear  keeper  of  the  keys  of  Heaven, 

A  thousand  souls  to-night 
Are  torn  from  life  on  land  and  sea, 
While  life  was  yet  delight.  , 

"  But  I  am  tired  of  storms  and  pain  ; 

Sweet  angel,  let  me  in ! 
And  send  some  strong  heart  back  again, 
To  suffer  and  to  sin." 

The  angel  answered  —  stern  and  slow  — 
"  How  darest  thou  be  dead, 
While  God  seeks  dust  to  make  the  street 
Wrhere  happier  men  may  tread  ? 

"  Go  back,  and  eat  earth's  bitter  herbs, 

Go,  hear  its  dead-bells  toll ; 
Lie  speechless  underneath  their  feet, 
Who  tread  across  thy  soul. 

"  Go,  learn  the  patience  of  the  Lord 

Whose  righteous  judgments  wait; 
Thy  murdered  cry  may  cleave  the  ground, 
But  not  unbar  His  gate." 

13 


194  POEMS. 

Right  backward,  through  the  whirling  snow, 

Back,  on  the  battling  wind, 
My  soul  crept  slowly  to  its  lair, 

The  body  left  behind. 

The  west-wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew, 
There  are  dead  men  on  the  sea, 

And  landsmen  dead,  in  shrouding  drifts  — 
But  there  is  life  in  me. 


"BLESSED   BE   NOTHING." 


"  BLESSED  be  nothing !"  an  old  woman  said, 
As  she  scrubbed  away  for  her  daily  bread. 

"  I'm  better  off  than  my  neighbor  the  Squire, 
He's  afraid  of  robbers,  afraid  of  fire, 
Afraid  of  flood  to  wreck  his  mill, 
Afraid  of  something  to  cross  his  will. 
I've  nothing  to  burn  and  naught  to  steal, 
But  a  bit  of  pork  and  a  bag  of  meal ; 
A  house  that  only  keeps  off  the  rain, 
Is  easy  burnt  up  and  built  again, 
Blessed  be  nothing !  my  heart  is  light, 
I  sing  at  my  washing,  and  sleep  all  night." 


"BLESSED  BE  NOTHING."  195 

"  Blessed  be  nothing !"  the  young  man  cried, 
As  he  turned  with  a  smile  to  his  blushing  bride. 

"  Banks  are  breaking  and  stocks  are  down, 
There's  dread  and  bitterness  all  over  town, 
There  are  rich  men  groaning,  and  wise  men  sad, 
And  men  whose  losses  have  made  them  mad ; 
There's  silk  and  satin,  but  scarcely  bread. 
And  many  a  woman  would  fain  be  dead, 
Whose  little  children  sob  and  cling 
For  the  daily  pleasure  she  cannot  bring. 
Blessed  be  nothing  for  you  and  me, 
We  have  no  riches  on  wings  to  flee." 

Blessed  be  nothing,  if  man  might  choose, 

For  he  who  hath  it  hath  naught  to  lose, 

Nothing  to  fear  from  flood  or  fire, 

All  things  to  hope  for  and  desire ; 

The  dream  that  is  better  than  waking  days, 

The  future  that  feeds  the  longing  gaze, 

Better,  far  better,  than  all  we  hold, 

As  far  as  mining  exceedeth  gold ; 

Or  hope  fruition  in  earth  below ; 

Or  peace  that  is  in  us,  outward  show. 

Almost,  —  when  worn  by  weary  years, 
Tired  with  a  pathway  of  thorns  and  tears, 
When  kindred  fail  us,  and  love  has  fled, 
And  we  know  the  living  less  than  the  dead, 
We  think  that  the  best  of  mortal  good 
Is  a  painless,  friendless  solitude. 


[96  POEMS. 

For  the  pangs  are  more  than  the  peace  they  give, 

Who  make  our  lives  so  sad  to  live. 

Blessed  be  nothing !  it  knows  no  loss, 

Nor  the  sharpest  nail  of  the  Master's  cross : 

No  friend  to  deny  us,  of  none  bereft, 

And  though  we  have  nothing,  yet  God  is  left. 

Yet,  having  nothing,  the  whole  is  ours : 

No  thorns  can  pierce  us,  who  have  no  flowers, 

And  sure  is  the  promise  of  His  word, 

Thy  poor  are  blessed  in  spirit,  Lord ! 

Whatever  we  lose  of  wealth  or  care 

Still  there  is  left  us  the  breath  of  prayer : 

That  heavenly  breath  of  a  world  so  high 

Sorrow  and  sinning  come  not  nigh. 

The  sure  and  certain  mercy  of  Him 

Who  sitteth  between  the  cherubim 

But  cares  for  the  lonely  sparrow's  fall, 

And  is  ready  and  willing  to  help  us  all. 

Rich  is  his  bounty  to  all  beneath 

To  the  poorest  and  saddest  he  giveth  —  death ! 


i97 


LATTER   SPRING. 

THE  silent,  silent,  Sunday  morning  — 
No  noise  of  feet  about  the  house ; 
You  heard  the  cat's  assiduous  purring, 
Or  in  the  wall  a  flittering  mouse. 

There,  all  alone,  we  sat  together, 
More  hushed  and  still  than  only  one ; 
The  ghosts  of  pain  and  grief  are  silent : 
There  comes  a  time  when  words  are  done. 

Lost  in  the  rest  that  was  not  pleasure, 
Gone  back,  as  clouds  that  follow  rain ; 
Forgetful,  for  the  dreary  moment, 
Of  life's  delayed  but  sweetest  gain ; 

No  various  talk  or  fitful  laughter,  — 
We  did  but  linger  and  endure ; 
For  after  all  the  weary  winter 
One  scarce  can  feel  the  spring  secure. 

When  suddenly,  outside  the  window, 
In  the  dull  quiet  of  the  lane, 
There  came  a  sound  of  tinkling  voices, 
As  when  the  black-birds  come  again. 


198  POEMS. 

So  sweet,  so  shrill,  and  yet  so  tiny, 
So  overflowed  with  life  and  bliss ; 
Such  rosy  blooms  and  songs  together, 
Such  living  scarlet  lips  to  kiss ! 

We  looked,  for  once,  full  at  each  other, 

And  laughed  ourselves:   "They're  coming  home!" 

Like  apple-blossoms  on  the  branches, 

Here  in  one  flush  our  spring  had  come. 


FALLEN. 

SHE  stood  upon  the  barren  strand 

Beside  the  hissing  sea, 

No  sail  came  fluttering  toward  the  land 

As  far  as  eye  could  see. 

All  heaven  was  high,  all  earth  alone, 

Nor  men  nor  angels  heard  her  moan. 

No  storm  that  wrecks  the  ships  of  man 

Had  cast  her  on  the  shore, 

A  hopeless,  helpless  life  to  scan, 

To  conquer  or  deplore. 

A  battle  lost  before  the  fight, 

A  day  that  shuddered  into  night. 


FALLEN.  199 

A  thousand  times  the  islet's  round 

She  paced  with  lagging  feet, 

And  searched  in  all  that  sterile  ground 

For  pool  or  fountain  sweet; 

The  brilliant  wave  whose  bubbles  burst 

More  salt  than  tears,  reviled  her  thirst. 

Not  any  leaf  of  crispest  green 

Or  fruit  of  life  there  grew, 

Upon  that  island's  lawn  serene, 

Beneath  those  skies  of  blue, 

But  high  on  slender  branches  swung 

Gay  poison  apples  o'er  her  hung. 

So  fair  their  shape,  their  hue  so  bright, 

So  deadly  hunger's  rage, 

They  showed  so  beauteous  to  the  sight, 

—  And  she  no  patient  sage,  — 

Like  her  who  out  of  Eden  fled, 

She  plucked  and  ate :  —  behold  her  dead ! 

And  ye  who  lift  abhorring  eyes, 

In  blame  of  such  a  deed  : 

Who,  lost  and  starved  'neath  alien  skies 

Refuse  on  husks  to  feed ; 

If  safe  ye  stand  in  such  a  strait, 

Close  fast  on  her  the  heavenly  gate ! 


"CHE    SARA   SARA." 

SHE   walked   in    the   garden 

And   a   rose   hung   on   a   tree, 
Red   as   heart's   blood, 

Fair   to   see.. 
"Ah,   kind   south-wind, 

Bend   it   to   me!" 
But   the   wind   laughed   softly, 

And   blew   to   the   sea. 

High   on   the   branches, 
Far   above   her   head, 
Like   a  king's   cup 
Round,   and   red. 
"  I   am   comely," 

The   maiden   said, 
"  I   have   gold   like   shore-sand, 
I    wish    I    were   dead ! 

"  Blushes   and   rubies 

Are   not   like   a   rose, 
Through   its   deep   heart 

Love-life  flows. 
Ah,   what   splendors 

Can    give   me   repose ! 
What   is   all    the    world    worth  ? 

I    cannot   reach    my    rose." 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE   THANKSGIVING. 

THEY  come  from  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
From  mountain  and  from  shore, 

Dear  faces  that  we  love  and  know, 
Around  the  fire  once  more. 

The  fair  locks  wave,  the  voices  thrill, 

The  sweet  eyes  fondly  gleam, 
Ah  worth  long  days  of  lowering  ill, 

The  rapture  of  the  dream. 

And  sitting  by  that  quiet  fire, 

What  fairer  faces  glow, 
To  sate  the  baffled  heart's  desire, 

That  mocked  it  long  ago. 

The  dead  and  gone,  the  living  lost, 

The  faithless  and  the  true, 
The  grave  unseals  its  lips  of  frost, 

The  dead  heart  wakens  too. 

Sweet  life,  sad  life !  dear  vanished  years, 

Ye  come  with  smiles  to-night ; 
The  rainbow  of  those  bitter  tears, 

That  wept  your  weary  flight. 


202  POEMS. 


Oh  night  detain  thy  gracious  spell ! 

Thy  lonely  dawn  delay  : 
They  live  too  long  and  love  too  well, 

Whose  dreams  can  darken  day ! 


GONE. 

A  SILENT,   odor-laden  air, 

From  heavy  branches  dropping  balm; 
A  crowd  of  daisies  milky  fair, 

That  sunward  turn  their  faces  calm. 
So  rapt,  a  bird  alone  may  dare 

To  stir  their  rapture  with  his  psalm. 

So  falls  the  perfect  day  of  June 
To  moonlit  eve,  from  dewy  dawn, 

With  light  winds  rustling  through  the  noon, 
And  conscious  roses  half  withdrawn, 

In  blushing  buds  that  wake  too  soon, 
To  flaunt  their  hearts  on  every  lawn. 

The  wide  content  of  summer's  bloom, 
The  peaceful   glory  of  its  prime ; 


GONE.  203 

Yet  over  all  a  brooding  gloom, 

A  desolation  born  of  time; 
As  distant  storm-caps  tower  and  loom, 

And  shroud   the   sun  with  heights  sublime. 

For  they  are  vanished  from  the  trees, 
And  vanished  from  the  thronging  flowers, 

Whose  tender  tones  thrilled   every  breeze 
And  sped  with  mirth  the  flying  hours. 

No  form  nor  shape  my  sad  eye  sees; 
No  faithful   spirit  haunts  these  bowers. 

Alone,  alone,  in  sun  or  dew ! 

One  fled  to  heaven,  of  earth  afraid  ; 
And  one  to  earth,  with  eyes  untrue 

And  lips  of  faltering  passion  strayed. 
Nor  shall  the  strenuous  years  renew 

On  any  bough  these  leaves  that  fade. 

Long  summer-days  shall  come  and  go  — 
No  Summer  brings  the  dead  again. 

I  listen  for  that  voice's  flow 

And  ache  at  heart  with  deepening  pain. 

And  one  fair  face  no  more  I  know, 
Still  living  sweet,   but  sweet  in  vain. 


204 


C.    E.   T. 

BLOW  sweet  south-wind  from  the  sea, 
Bring  the  red  buds  to  hill  and  lea, 
Waken  the  fountains  that  dream  of  thee, 
One  thing  cannot  come  back  to  me ! 

Oh !  thou  sleeper,  the  soft  south  air 
Moaned  above  thee  with  cry  and  prayer; 
Vain  the  pleading  of  love's  despair ; 
Thou  hast  left  the  burden  for  us  to  bear. 

Safe  forever  on  heaven's  dear  shore, 
Thee  no  winter  shall  visit  more, 
Thy  heart  is  rested,  thy  fears  are  o'er 
On  "  the  hills  of  God  "  no  tempests  roar. 

Hearts  that  are  aching  with  mortal  pain, 
Longing  to  hear  thy  voice  again  : 
Through  wintry  breezes  and  sobbing  rain, 
Cry  for  thy  coming  and  cry  in  vain. 

Pass,  oh  spring-time !  with  swiftest  feet. 
Hasten,  summer,  on  breezes  fleet : 
Come  thou  morning  of  morns  most  sweet, 
When  the  living  rest  and  the  dead  shall  meet. 


205 


DAILY   BREAD. 

MASTER,  help !     From  hour  to  hour 
Lord,  I  need  thy  saving  power, 
Not  to  soothe  to-morrow's  woes; 
Not  to  bless  to-night's  repose; 
Now,  I  hunger  to  be  fed, 
Give  to-day  my  daily  bread, 

Every  moment  hold  my  hand, 
Without  Thee  I  cannot  stand. 
Show  my  foot  the  place  to  tread, 
Step  by  step  I  must  be  led : 
Go  before  me  all  the  way 
Give  me  daily  bread  to-day. 

If  I  look  beyond  the  hour, 
Heart  and  hand  forget  their  power; 
Sin  and  sorrow  waiting  near, 
Fill  my  soul  with  mortal  fear. 
Hope  and  help  alike  are  fled, 
I  must  live  by  daily  bread. 

While  mine  eyes  are  fixed  on  Thee 
Nothing  of  myself  I  see  ; 


206  POEMS. 

While  thy  strength  is  mine  to  wear, 
All  things  I  can  do  and  bear, 
Close  beside  me,  Master,  stay ! 
Give  me  daily  bread  to-day. 

Then  when  days  shall  come  no  more, 
When  my  need  and  want  are  o'er ; 
When  thy  feeblest  child  shall  be 
Led  to  living  streams  by  Thee ; 
Lamb  of  God !  with  heavenly  bread 
May  I  still  by  Thee  be  fed. 


SUB    ROSA. 

WHO  knows  the  secret  of  the  rose  ? 
Deep  in  her  silent  heart  it  glows: 
The  sun  alone,  from  upper  air, 
Discerns  the  heavenly  mystery  there. 
Is  there  one  human  soul  that  knows 
The  sacred  secret  of  the  rose  ? 

Not  he  who  sad  and  daunted  stands, 
Afraid  to  reach  his  trembling  hands, 


SUB    ROSA.  207 

Afraid  to  grasp  the  bliss  that  lies 
Deep  in  those  golden  mysteries, 
Lest  men  or  angels  shout  in  scorn 
The  legend  of  the  rose's  thorn. 

Not  he  who  wastes  his  listless  hours, 
Like  idle  moths,  on  any  flowers ; 
High  on  the  rose's  front  serene 
Blazes  the  crown  that  marks  the  queen 
No  soul  that  dares  that  sign  deny 
Shall  in  her  fragrant  bosom  lie. 

Nor  he  who  knows  no  more  delight 
Than  dwells  within  his  fickle  sight ; 
For  blush  and  bloom  may  pass  away 
In  compass  of  a  summer's  day ; 
But  still  the  rose's  heart  is  sweet, 
Though  all  its  outward  glow  be  fleet. 

But  he  who  meets  its  keenest  thorn 
With  gracious  strength  and  tender  scorn ; 
Who  knows  the  royal  heart  that  stands 
Waiting  the  touch  of  royal  hands ; 
Who  trusts  to  love's  eternity 
When  love's  own  blossoms  fade  and  die; 
Who  waits  with  passion's  patient  strength 
For  passion's  peace,  that  comes  at  length  — 
He  only  conquers,  for  he  knows 
The  sacred  secret  of  the  rose. 


208 


AWAKE. 

ALL  the  night  long,  all  the  long  night, 

Exiled  from  sunshine  and  from  sight, 

Haunted  with  all  the  sounds  of  dread, 

Darkness  crowding  on  my  head, 

The  wind  that  cries  in  soulless  agony, 

Or  driving  rain, 

With  quick  light  fingers  rapping  on  the  pane, 

Or  those  fierce  gales  that  flee 

From  the  dark  Northern  sea, 

Wild  with  the  terror  of  their  lonely  flight, 

Flinging  their  awful  wings  across  the  night 

Till  roof  and  rafter  shake  with  fear, 

And  forests  bend,  and  the  dread  oceans  hear 

And  rise  to  battle,  every  hoary  crest 

Alive  with  light,  the  frantic  gale  to  breast. 

Or  else  my  sad  and  frighted  ear. 
Quick  the  feeblest  sound  to  hear 
Knows  each  gliding  step  that  steals 
Up  and  down  the  creaking  stair, 
And  silenced  by  a  vague  despair 
The  breath  of  ghostly  presence  feels. 
Or  in  the  wall  a  rustling  stir 
Hushed  on  a  sudden ;  and  the  air 
Thrills  with  conscious  life,  unseen, 


AWAKE.  209 

Till  my  quick  breath  hardly  dare 
Gasp  its  sobbing  utterance 
Lest  it  break  that  awful  trance 
To  some  new  horror. 

Then,  outside,  the  fir 

With  crush  and  hiss  of  prickling  icy  boughs 
Thorned  with  spears  of  dripping  frost, 
By  midnight's  angry  breath  is  tossed 
Against  the  overhanging  eaves; 
Or  the  weary  south  wind  grieves 
And  all  the  old  sad  days  arouse 
To  haunt  me  in  my  sleeplessness  : 
Rank  upon  rank,  the  armies  of  distress. 

Then  all  the  dead  awake. 

I  hear  their  voices  thin  and  far 

Fainter  than  fading  echoes  are. 

I  see  their  faces  turned  from  me, 

As  one  their  new  eyes  cannot  see, 

They  know  me  not.     Does  death  estrange? 

Shall  an  alien  with  them  range ! 

Oh  ye  beloved  !   I  am  living  yet. 

Ye  dead,  do  y.e  forget  ? 

Ah  !  my  heart  must  dumbly  ache 

Torn  with  longing  for  your  sake. 

When  will  the  horror  of  the  darkness  pass  ? 

See !  on  its  depths  a  stealing,  misty  ray, 

Felt  more  than  seen,  a  creeping  shade  of  gray, 


210  POEMS. 

Softly  through  the  window  pane, 

Calls  my  soul  to  life  again. 

Warm  and  warmer  still  it  grows, 

Streaked  with  saffron  and  with  rose, 

And  the  great  sun,  dawning  slow 

Bids  the  purple  hillsides  glow ; 

The  light  has  come !  the  light,  and  life,  and  breath, 

Oh  God  Thou  art  the  light.     Darkness  is  death. 


A   THANKSGIVING. 

I  BRING  my  hymn  of  thankfulness 
To  Thee,  dear  Lord,  to-day ; 

Though  not  for  joys  Thy  name  I  bless 
And  not  for  gifts  I  pray. 

The  griefs  that  know  not  man's  redress 
Before  Thy  feet  I  lay. 

Master !  I  thank  Thee  for  the  sin 
That  taught  mine  eyes  to  see 

What  depths  of  loving  lie  within 
The  heart  that  broke  for  me ; 

What  patience  human  want  can  win 
From  God's  divinity. 


A    THANKSGIVING.  211 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  blank  despair, 

When  friend  and  love  forsake, 
That  taught  me  how  Thy  cross  to  bear, 

Who  bore  it  for  my  sake, 
And  showed  my  lonely  soul  a  prayer 

That  from  Thy  lips  1  take. 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  life  of  grief 

I  share  with  all  below, 
Wherein  I  learn  the  sure  relief 

My  brother's  heart  to  know, 
And  in  the  wisdom  taught  of  pain 

To  soothe  and  share  his  woe. 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  languid  years 

Of  loneliness  and  pain, 
When  flesh  and  spirit  sowed  in  tears, 

But  scattered  not  in  vain ; 
For  trust  in  God  and  faith  in  man 

Sprang  up  beneath  the  rain. 

I  thank  Thee  for  my  vain  desires, 

That  no  fulfilment  knew ; 
For  life's  consuming,  cleansing  fires, 

That  searched  me  through  and  through, 
Till  /  could  say  to  Him  :  ''  Forgive  ! 

They  know  not  what  they  do." 

What  fulness  of  my  earthly  store, 
What  shine  of  harvest  sun, 


212  POEMS. 

What  ointment  on  Thy  feet  to  pour, 
What  honored  race  to  run, 

What  joyful  song  of  thankfulness, 
Here  ended  or  begun, 

Shall  mate  with  mine,  who  learn  so  late 
To  know  Thy  will  is  done  ? 


CAMARALZAMAN. 

"Then  the  queen  looked  into  his  face,  and  said,  O  beloved, 
awake  !'  but  Maimouna  the  fairy  immersed  him  in  sleep,  and  pressed 
down  his  head  with  her  wing,  so  he  awoke  not." — ARABIAN 
NIGHTS. 

DEEP  in  the  lily  its  odor  lies, 
Hidden  in  beauty  cold  as  snow ; 

Only  the  south  wind  stoops  as  it  flies, 
Stealing  sweetness  that  dreams  below. 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  Arab  tale 
Sleeps  the  breath  of  a  truth  divine; 

Open  thy  petals,  oh  lily  pale, 

Make  the  splendor  and  perfume  mine. 

When  the  rapture  of  life  shall  call, 

Low  or  loud,  through  my  weary  dream; 

When  its  lips  on  my  slumber  fall, 

And  its  eyes  of  summer  above  me  gleam,  — 


THE     RABBIS    LESSON.  ! 

Patient  angel  of  strength  and  power, 
Guarding  ever  my  wandering  way, 

Pour  thy  sleep  on  the  fateful  hour, 

Hide  mine  eyes  from  the  dawning  day. 

When  the  thrill  of  its  kisses  spread 
Life  and  bliss  till  the  sleep  must  flee, 

Press  thy  wing  on  my  restless  head, 
Keep  me  sleeping  and  safe  for  thee! 


THE    RABBI'S   LESSON. 


MY  solemn  friend,  whose  dismal  face 
Darkens  both  street  and  dwelling-place, 
The  moody  slave  of  self  and  greed, 
Regardless  of  another's  need ; 
You  whom  I  greet  in  any  crowd 
Like  some  impending  thunder-cloud, 
Whose  snap  and  snarl  at  wife  and  child 
Is  most  like  beasts  that  range  the  wild ; 
Hear  what  a  volume  old  and  sage 
Has  for  your  comfort  on  its  page ! 


214  POEMS. 

One  sunny  day,  the  Talmud  says, 
A  Rabbi  walked  the  city's  ways, 
And  met  with  startled  gaze  and  awe 
A  prophet  noted  in  the  law.  • 
The  Rabbi  bent  his  haughty  head 
Before  this  vision  from  the  dead. 
"  Tell  me,  O  master,"  pleaded  he, 
"  Among  this  swarming  crowd  we  see 
Who  shall  attain  to  certain  bliss 
In  that  dread  world  that  follows  this." 
"  Behold  that  man  !"  the  prophet  cried, 
"  Humpbacked  and  lame  and  evil-eyed." 
"  That  man,  who  keeps  the  prison  keys  ? 

Most  mean  and  vile  of  all  of  these !" 
"  Yea,  for  the  prisoners  bless  the  sound 
Of  footsteps  halting  on  the  ground, 
Such  mercy  and  such  cheer  they  bring, 
Such  tender  care  in  everything, 
Such  pity  for  the  soul  that  strayed, 
For  every  want  such  tender  aid. 
Moreover,  right  before  thee  stand 
Two  travelers  to  the  heavenly  land  — 
Those  smiling  men,  with  saw  and  plane, 
Intent  their  daily  bread  to  gain. 
Ragged  and  poor,  they  both  belong 
Most  surely  to  the  heavenly  throng." 
The  prophet  vanished  as  he  spoke, 
More  sudden  than  a  wind-blown  smoke; 
But  little  did  the  Rabbi  heed, 
He  followed  on  those  men  with  speed. 


THE  RABBI'S   LESSON.  215 

"Tell  me,  O  brethren,  how  is  this  ? 
What  works  ye  do  for  heavenly  bliss  ?" 
They  turned  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

u  Why  should  Jehovah  grant  us  grace  ? 
We  have  but  cheerful  hearts  within, 
Nor  think  our  happiness  a  sin. 
And,  if  we  meet  a  man  cast  down 
Or  sad  at  heart  about  the  town, 
We  cheer  him  up  with  jest  and  song 
And  pleasant  words  and  laughter  long. 
The  little  children  as  we  pass 
Smile  at  us  from  the  nodding  grass. 
Sometimes  we  sport  with  them  awhile, 
Or  wranglers  strive  to  reconcile, 
Whatever  lies  within  our  power 
To  make  one  happy  heart  or  hour." 
The  Rabbi  blessed  them  where  they  stood, 
Then  turned  and  sought  his  solitude. 
But  ever  thence,  from  deed  and  word, 
Men  called  him  "  Sunshine  of  the  Lord," 


2l6 


IN    PACE. 

BE  silent,  friend !  thy  laugh  and  jest  delay  ; 

There  lies  a  dead  thing  in  my  house  to-day. 
A  wan  and  wasted  corpse  I  do  not  mourn. 

Nay,  rather  weep  that  ever  it  were  born. 

Slow  moons  have  watched  its  still  decreasing  breath, 
And  hopeless  years  awaited  each  its  death, 

Yet  still  the  patient,  gasping,  weary  child 

Looked  for  the  lingering  end  and  sighed  and  smiled. 

So  some  poor  dog,  for  service  less  refined, 
Beaten  and  cowed  by  man's  superior  mind, 

Amid  its  latest  tortures  fawns  and  cries, 

And  licks  the  hand  by  whose  command  it  dies. 

Sleep !  sleep  in  peace ;  secure  shall  be  thy  rest 
As  a  dead  child  upon  its  mother's  breast ; 

I  draw  a  breath  of  long  and  sweet  relief, 

Broke  with  past  sobs  and  spent  with  wasted  grief. 

Yet  well  I  know  that  ere  this  day  return, 

The  soul  that  slew  thee  o'er  thy  dust  shall  mourn ; 

Feel  all  too  late  the  loss  no  time  can  heal, 
And  all  in  vain  to  heaven  or  man  appeal : 

Thy  dying  pangs  avenge  in  dull  despair, 

And  dread  its  life  because  thou  art  not  there. 


217 


NON    SEQUITUR. 

NEW,  grassy  scents,  stir  everywhere, 
And  soft  the  southern  winds  complain  : 

Are  these  slow  dews  dropped  out  of  air  ? 
And  are  they  tears,  or  are  they  rain  ? 

Some  vague  and  sweet  philosophy 

With  flattering  love-lips  made  reply, — 
"  Is  not  the  omen  good  to  thee  ? 

Both  have  their  harvest  by-and-by." 

Then  answered  my  indignant  heart  — 
"The  rain  is  fresh,  the  rain  is  cold, 
What  wonder  if  the  blossoms  start 
When  God  bestows  it  on  the  mould ! 

"  But  hot  and  bitter  tears  of  pain, 

The  wild  result  of  desperate  hours, 
What  harvests  black  of  blasted  grain 
Should  "follow  such  unblessed  showers  ? 

"  Go  to,  sweet  voice !  leave  men  to  lie. 

The  fond  analogies  you  draw 
Blazon  their  own  futility,  — 

Who  judges  man  by  nature's  law  ?" 


2l8 


SIBI. 

THOU  solitary,  wayward,  restless  heart, 
Eager,  bewildered  seeker  after  rest, 

Wrapt  in  thy  pride  and  sorrow  far  apart, 
Sad  cynic,  in  a  poor  indifference  drest ! 

Hear !  for  I  have  a  message  unto  thee, 
My  brother  !  my  beloved !  there  is  a  light 

Even  for  thy  closed  eyes ;  a  melody 

That  shall  outsing  all  terrors  of  the  night. 

Forsake  the  burdens  thou  hast  made  and  bound ! 

Put  on  the  garments  of  a  little  child, 
In  silent  faith  and  pure  obedience  found, 

Simple  and  meek,  with  spirit  undefiled. 

Know  Love  surrounds  thee  like  the  unseen  air, 
Love  that  redeemed  thee  —  infinite  —  divine  — 

And  mortal  Pity  longs  thy  griefs  to  bear, 
Were  but  its  timid  fingers  clasped  by  thine. 

Dear  heart !  the  drooping  vision  never  sees 
How  the  stars  shine,  nor  any  storm-bent  bow; 

So  thou  beholdest  not  the  sympathies, 

Tender  and  faithful,  that  about  thee  grow. 


HERE.  219 

Love  and  thou  shalt  be  loved ;  for  never  yet 
Was  any  soul  left  to  the  bonds  of  hate 

That  breathed  out  peace.     Nor  can  thy  God  forget. 
Trust !  for  He  shall  not  leave  ihee  desolate. 

When  the  immortal  glory  after  death 

Streams  on  thy  past,  how  wilt  thou  start  to  see 

What  love  unknown  hung  on  thy  very  breath, 
Hoped,  pitied,  prayed  and  nightly  wept  for  thee. 

Strong  is  the  patience  of  our  Father's  care 
My  brother  !  my  belov'd  !  and  o'er  thy  way 

Watch  eyes  of  human  tenderness  and  prayer, 

Take  courage  !  —  on  the  mountains  breaketh  day ! 


HERE. 


SWEET  summer-night,  beside  the  sea, 
Cast  all  thy  sweet  life  over  me ! 
Thy  silence  and  serenity, 

Thy  healing  and  content ; 
The  rushing  waves  that  fall  and  break 
Unutterable  music  make, 
And  words  that  no  man  ever  spake 

Are  to  its  measure  lent. 


22O  POEMS. 

The  salt  wind  kisses  into  rest 

Both  languid  eye  a'nd  fevered  breast, 

The  cool  gray  rock,  with  sea-weeds  drest, 

Gives  shadow,  still  with  strength  ; 
The  bitter  and  baptismal  sea 
With  living  water  sprinkles  me, 
Slow  patience  sets  her  bondsman  free, 

And  blesses  him  at  length. 

There  is  a  time  in  every  tide 
When  surf  and  billow  both  subside, 
And  on  the  outward  current  glide 

Both  shark  and  pirate*  sail ; 
The  shipwrecked  sailor,  cast  ashore, 
Perceives  afar  that  lessening  roar, 
And  gives  one  desperate  struggle  more. 

Ah !  shall  that  struggle  fail  ? 


MONOTROPA. 


LOVES  serene,  uncarnate  Graces ! 

Born  of  pure  dreams  in  lonely  places, 

Where  the  black  untrodden  earth 

Rejects  the  dancing  sunshine's  mirth, 

And  slow  leaves,  dropping  through  the  wood, 

Stir  to  sound  the  solitude. 

Through  what  tranquil,  odorous  airs, 

Undisturbed  by  sighs  or  prayers, 

Paler  than  pale  alabaster 

Wrought  to  life  by  some  old  master, 

Did  ye  into  vision  rise, 

And  nocturnal  moths  surprise  ? 

Clustered  in  undraperied  whiteness, 

Pierced  by  stars  to  lucent  brightness, 

Cooler  than  a  baby's  lips, 

Pure  as  dew  that  nightly  drips, 

Utterly  intact  and  calm, 

Cold  to  summer's  rapturous  balm, 

So  divine  that  in  ye  lingers 

A  shuddering  dread  of  mortal  fingers, 

Though  their  tips  be  pink  and  fine, 

Under  the  caress  ye  pine, 


POEMS. 

Blackened  with  the  passion-fever 
That  your  cool  bells  shun  forever. 

Sweetest  souls  of  beauty-lovers, 
Above  your  cups  the  gold  bee  hovers, 
In  sequestered  maze  and  awe, 
Repelled  by  instinct's  sacred  law ; 
Knowing  well  no  sweetness  is 
In  your  frosted  chalices. 
Never  bird,  nor  bee,  nor  moth, 
Inebriate  with  sunny  sloth, 
Dare  intrude  on  hallowed  ground, 
Cease  thyself,  vain  rhythmic  sound ! 


EXOGENESIS. 

THE  curving  beach  and  shining  bay, 
Stretch  from  the  cliff- foot  far  away, 
Where  sailing  dreams  of  ships  go  by 
And  trace  their  spars  against  the  sky. 
A  belt  of  woodland,  dense  and  dark, 
The  distant  beacon's  flashing  spark, 
The  moth-white  sails  that  wing-and-wing 
Up  from  the  purple  ocean  spring ;  — 


EXOGENES1S.  223 

One  and  all,  in  the  perfect  hour, 

Open  to  life  its  perfect  flower; 

Though  the  ardent  rose  is  dim  and  dead, 

Though  the  cool  Spring-daisies  all  are  fled, 

The  lily  unfolds  its  tintless  calm 

And  the  golden  anthers  are  spiced  with  balm. 

Come,  my  soul,  from  thy  silent  cell ! 
Know  the  healing  of  Nature's  spell. 
The  soft  wild  waves  that  rush  and  leap, 
Sing  one  song  from  the  hoary  deep ; 
The  south-wind  knows  its  own  refrain 
As  it  speeds  the  cloud  o'er  heaven's  blue  main. 
'  Lose  thyself,  thyself  to  win  : 
Grow  from  without  thee,  not  within.'* 

Leave  thy  thought  and  care  alone, 

Let  the  dead  for  the  dead  make  moan ; 

Gather  from  earth  and  air  and  sea 

The  pulseless  peace  they  keep  for  thee. 

Ring  on  ring  of  sight  and  sound 

Shall  hide  thy  heart  in  a  calm  profound,  — 

Where  the  works  of  men  and  the  ways  of  earth 

Shall  never  enter  with  tears  or  mirth, 

And  the  love  of  kind  shall  kinder  be 

From  nature  than  humanity. 


224 


CAPTIVE. 


THE  Summer  comes,  the  Summer  dies, 
Red  leaves  whirl  idly  from  the  tree, 

But  no  more  cleaving  of  the  skies, 
No  southward  sunshine  waits  for  me ! 

You  shut  me  in  a  gilded  cage, 

You  deck  the  bars  with  tropic  flowers, 

Nor  know  that  freedom's  living  rage 
Defies  you  through  the  listless  hours. 

What  passion  fierce,  what  service  true, 
Could  ever  such  a  wrong  requite  ? 

What  gift,  or  clasp,  or"  kiss  from  you 
Were  worth  an  hour  of  soaring  flight  ? 

I  beat  my  wings  against  the  wire, 
I  pant  my  trammelled  heart  away; 

The  fever  of  one  mad  desire 

Burns  and  consumes  me  all  the  day. 

What  care  I  for  your  tedious  love, 
For  tender  word  or  fond  caress  ? 

I  die  for  one  free  flight  above, 
One  rapture  of  the  wilderness! 


225 


DOUBT. 

THE   bee   knows    honey, 

And   the  blossoms   light, 
Day    the    dawning, 

Stars    the   night; 
The    slow,    glad   river 

Knows    its    sea; 
Is   it    true,    Love, 

I    know    not    thee  ? 

When    the    Summer 

Brings    snow-drifts   piled, 
When    the    planets 

Go    wandering    wild, 
When    the    old    hill-tops 

Valleys  be,  — 
Tell   me   true,    Love, 

Shall    I    know    thee  ? 

Where'er    I    wander, 

By    sea    or   shore, 
A    dim,    sweet    vision 

Flies    fast    before, 
Its    lingering   shadow 

Floats    over   me  ;  — 
I    know    thy    shade,    Love, 

Do    I    know    thee  ? 


226  POEMS. 

"  Rest    in    thy    dreaming, 

Child   divine ! 
What   grape-bloom   knoweth 

Its   fiery  wine  ? 
Only    the    sleeper 

No    sun    can    see ; 
He    that    doubteth 

Knows    not    me." 


DAGMAR. 


THE  beautiful  Princess  Dagmar, 
The  "darling  queen,"  lay  dead 

With  lilies  on  her  bosom 
And  roses  round  her  head. 

Cold,  and  fair,  and  silent, 

Upon  her  bier  she  lay, 
And  weeping  lords  and  gentlemen 

Were  bearing  her  away ; 

When  down  the  city  causeway, 
Whereon  the  mourners  passed, 

In  bitter  grief  and  raging  woe 
The  king  came  riding  fast. 


DAGMAR  227 

The  dead  heart  in  her  bosom 

Leapt  up  his  voice  to  hear, 
The  dead  lips  opened  softly, 

She  rose  upon  the  bier; 

Straight  to  her  husband's  smitten  soul 

A  smile  of  heaven  she  sent; 
A  word  of  love  and  pleading, 

Then  back  to  death  she  went. 


To  die  a  double  dying, 

Oh  fate,  be  spared  to  me ! 
When  death  has  kissed  mine  eyelids 

And  life  has  set  me  free. 

Thou,  dearest,  do  not  call  me! 

Do  not  utter  a  word; 
Let  not  my  peace  be  broken, 

My  hard-won  slumber  stirred. 

Leave  it  for  one  Voice,  dearer, 

Dearer  even  than  thine, 
When  the  resurrection  morning 

On  heaven  and  earth  shall  shine, 

To  send  its  trumpet  clangor 

Through  star,  and  sod,  and  sky, 

And  call  His  dead,  where'er  their  bed, 
To  the  life  that  cannot  die. 


JOHN    BROWN. 

SAMSON    AGONISTES. 
December  2,  1859. 

You  bound  and  made  your  sport  of  him,  Philistia  ! 

You  set  your  sons  at  him  to  flout  and  jeer ; 
You  loaded  down  his  limbs  with  heavy  fetters ; 

Your  mildest  mercy  was  a  smiling  sneer. 

One  man  amidst  a  thousand  who  defied  him  — 

One  man  from  whom  his  awful  strength  had  fled,  — 

You  brought  him  out  to  lash  him  with  your  vengeance, 
Ten  thousand  curses  on  one  hoary  head  ! 

You  think  his  eyes  are  closed  and  blind  forever, 
Because  you  seared  them  to  this  mortal  day ; 

You  draw  a  longer  breath  of  exultation, 

Because  your  conqueror's  power  has  passed  away. 

Oh,  fools !  his  arms  are  round  your  temple-pillars ; 

Oh,  blind !  his  strength  divine  begins  to  wake ;  — 
Hark !  the  great  roof-tree  trembles  from  its  centre, 

Hark !  how  the  rafters  bend  and  swerve  and  shake ! 


229 

A    HOSPITAL   SOLILOQUY. 

April  loth,  1865. 

I  SWAN  !    its  pleasant  now  we've  beaten 
To  think  I  staid  an'  seen  it  through. 

I  haint  gin'  in  to  no  retreatin', 
And  I've  seen  battles  more'n  two. 

So  now  I'm  finished  and  knocked  under, 
For  one  leg's  gone,  an'  t'other's  lame ; 

I  like  to  hear  them  cannon  thunder, 
To  tell  the  world  we've  got  the  game. 

But  better'n  all  the  fire  an  flashin' 
Down  on  the  Shenandoah  route, 

Where  Phil's  a  swearin'  and  a  dashin', 
Is  see'n'  them  English  folks  back  out. 

I  would  ha  gi'n  a  mint  o'dollars 

Two  years  ago,  to  see  'em  try 
With  Abr'am's  hand  gripped  in  their  collars, 

How  they  liked  eatin'  humble-pie. 

An'  there  they  set,  while  we're  a  grinnin', 
And  say  'twas  all  a  darned  mistake ; 

That  old  secesh  done  all  the  sinnin', 
And  they  have  allers  baked  our  cake. 


230  POEMS. 

I  sot  last  night  an  heerd  the  firm' 

An'  see  the  rockets  shoot  the  dark, 
And  heerd  the  others  all  inquirin'  — 
"  What's  happened  ?"    "  Who  has  hit  the  mark  ?" 

The  sick,  and  lame,  and  sore,  an'  sleepy, 
They  gin  a  cheer!  —  'tw'an't  loud  I  know, 

But  then  it  made  me  kind  o'creepy 
To  hear  their  voices  quaver  so. 

Thinks  I,  you're  shot  with  English  powder, 
An'  hacked  with  English  swords  and  guns; 

They'll  have  to  lie  a  little  louder 
Afore  they  cheat  us  knowin'  ones. 

An'  now  the  war's  as  good  as  over, 
And  dead,  and  lame,  an'  mourners  tell, 

It  wasn't  livin'  quite  in  clover, 

For  them  that  lived  or  them  that  fell. 

I   kinder  guess  next  time  we  do  it, 
Them  sassy  English  folks  will  find 

When  we  get  riled,  an'  buckle  to  it, 

They  won't  have  time  to  change  their  mind? 


231 


DEAD    LOVE. 

WHEN  Love  is  dead,  who  writes  his  epitaph  ? 
Who  kisses  his  shut  eyes,  and  says,  "  Sleep  well !" 
We  do  not  ring  for  him  a  passing  bell, 
We  cover  him  with  flowers  of  jest  and  laugh, 
The  bitter  funeral  wine  in  silence  quaff,  x 

And  with  dull  heart-beats  toll  his  secret  knell. 
His  grave  is  ours;  and  yet  with  life  we  strive 
Endure  the  years,  and  grind  our  daily  task. 
There  is  no  heaven  for  Love  that  could  not  live, 
Poor  earth  has  mocked  us  with  this  radiant  mask  : 
And  when  in  agony  our  dry  lips  ask  — 
"  If  God  deprive  us,  wherefore  did  he  give  ?" 
There  comes  some  dreadful  question  from  above, 
And  asks,  beside  his  grave,  "  Was  this   poor  dead 
thing,  Love  ?" 


232 


HE   AND    SHE. 

How  does  a  woman  love  ?     Once,  no  more : 

Though  life  forever  its  loss  deplore. 

Deep  in  sorrow,  or  want,  or  sin, 

One  king  reigneth  her  heart  within  ; 

One  alone  by  night  and  day, 

Moves  her  spirit  to  curse  or  pray ; 

One  voice  only  can  call  her  soul 

Back  from  the  grasp  of  death's  control ; 

Though  loves  beset  her  and  friends  deride ; 

Yea,  when  she  smileth  another's  bride ; 

Still  for  her  master  her  life  makes  moan ; 

Once  is  forever;  and  once  alone. 

How  does  a  man  love  ?     Once  for  all ; 

The  sweetest  voices  of  life  may  call, 

Sorrow  daunt  him,  or  death  dismay, 

Joy's  red  roses  bedeck  his  way, 

Fortune  smile,  or  jest,  or  frown, 

The  cruel  thumb  of  the  world  turn  down, 

Loss  betray  him,  or  gain  delight, 

Through  storm  or  sunshine,  by  day  or  night, 

Wandering,  toiling,  asleep,  awake 

Though  souls  may  madden  or  frail  hearts  break 

Better  than  wife,  or  child,  or  pelf, 

Once  and  forever,  he  loves  —  himself! 


233 


LIFE    AND    DEATH. 

A    REMEMBRANCE. 

Do  not  think  of  her  with  death. 
What  is  life  ?     This  fluttering  breath 
Here  a  moment,  gone  for  aye, 
Lost  'twixt  now  and  yesterday? 
Life,  ah  fool !  'tis  all  divine. 
Not  this  gasp  of  yours  or  mine 
Prisoned  in  a  mortal  form, 
Racked  with  fever,  spent  with  storm. 
'Tis  a  quenchless  flame  from  Him 
Who  created  seraphim  ; 
Bade  his  creature  earth  renew, 
Ever  to  its  cycle  true, 
Leaf  and  blossom  from  their  grave, 
Though  the  winter  howl  and  rave. 
What  if  buds  be  iron-bound 
Deep  within  the  barren  ground  ? 
There  the  life  doth  lie  asleep 
Till  the  spring  rains  o'er  it  weep. 
Then  it  rises ;  flood  nor  fire, 
Fiendish  wrath,  nor  man's  desire, 
That  free  spark  extinguisheth, 
Nor  the  dark  that  men  call  death. 


234  POEMS. 

So  she  liveth,  and  the  prison 
Whence  her  glad  soul  hath  arisen, 
Lieth  in  the  dust  to-day, 
Since  she  would  no  longer  stay. 
Do  ft  honor,  for  it  held  her; 
Through  its  dimness  we  beheld  her; 
Underneath  its  feebleness, 
Guessing  some  sublime  redress, 
Yet  to  free  that  heavenly  shape, 
So  to  Heaven  it  might  escape. 
In  the  pure  gleam  of  her  eye, 
In  her  laugh's  frank  verity, 
On  the  tablet  broad  and  fair 
'Neath  the  tendrils  of  her  hair, 
Life  immortal  set  its  seal. 
Dust  no  more  could  dare  reveal, 
Lest  its  strong  and  glorious  shining 
Filled  us  with  divine  repining, 
Made  us  mad  to  quit  the  strife 
And  the  longing  men  call  life. 
Lovely  soul !     Few  days  divide 
Us,  thy  kindred,  from  thy  side. 
Lovely  clay !     What  death  can  ever 
Tender  thoughts  from  thee  dissever  ? 
Rest,  till  God's  prevailing  spring 
From  his  holiest  garden  bring, 
With  the  violet  and  the  rose, 
Thy  new  fashion,  and  disclose, 
In  that  resurrection  hour, 
All  the  hidings  of  his  power. 


OASIS.  235 

Then  those  eyes  shall  shine  again, 

Free  from  shade  of  grief  or  pain ; 

And  the  triumph  of  that  brow 

Tell  us  Life  is  victor  now. 

Life  that  rules,  and  reigns,  and  is 

God  and  God's  eternities. 

Speed  the  day  and  haste  the  night! 

Death  is  darkness.     Life  is  light. 


OASIS. 

How  shall  I  thank  thee,  Lord  for  this  repose  ? 
This  shelter  from  the  noonday  toil  and  heat : 
This  little  spring  more  cool  than  Syrian  snows, 
This  shadow  of  the  palm-trees  green  and  sweet. 

Long  have  I  wandered  through  the  desert  sands 
With  shrinking  feet  and  fevered  lips  of  fire, 
Taunted  and  mocked  with  pictures  of  fresh  lands, 
That  fled  before  the  clasp  of  my  desire. 

How  merciless  were  all  the  burning  days 
How  dreary  every  still  and  brilliant  night 
What  unrelenting  tempests  vexed  my  ways, 
And  hid  with  whirling  sands  each  friendly  light. 


236  POEMS. 

Ah  Lord !  dear  Lord !  for  thy  great  pity's  sake, 
Spare  me  this  spot  of  soft  and  tranquil  rest, 
This  hidden  spring  my  human  thirst  to  slake 
This  vernal  shade  to  cool  my  panting  breast ! 

Thou  know'st  1  cannot  linger  by  it  long, 
The  city  of  my  rest  not  far  away, 
Sends  on  the  west-wind  summons  loud  and  long, 
Only  a  few  short  hours  can  I  delay. 

I  will  not  soil  this  fountain  with  my  lips, 
Nor  gather  from  its  brink  one  single  flower 
Nor  fright  one  bird  that  from  its  sweetness  sips. 
Spare  me,  dear  Lord!  to  linger  out  mine  hour! 


FAITHFUL. 

A  LONG,  bare  ward  in  the  hospital ; 

A  dying  girl  in  the  narrow  bed ; 
A  nurse,  whose  footsteps  lightly  fall, 

Soothing  softly  that  restless  head. 

Slain  by  the  man  she  learned  to  love, 
Beaten,  murdered,  and  flung  away ; 

None  beheld  it  but  God  above, 

And  she  who  bore  it.     And  there  she  lay. 


FAITHFUL.  237 

"  A  little  drink  of  water,  dear  ?" 

Slowly  the  white  lips  gasp  and  sip. 
"  Let  me  turn  you  over,  so  you  can  hear, 

While  I  let  the  ice  on  your  temple  drip." 

A  look  of  terror  disturbs  her  face ; 

Firm  and  silent  those  pale  lips  close; 
A  stranger  stands  in  the  nurse's  place : 
"  Tell  us  who  hurt  you,  for  no  one  knows." 

A  glitter  of  joy  is  in  her  eye. 

Faintly  she  whispers  :  "  Nobody  did." 
And  one  tear  christens  the  loving  lie 

From  the  heart  in  that  wounded  bosom  hid. 

"  Nobody  did  it !"  she  says  again. 

"  Nobody  hurt  me  !"     Her  eyes  grow  dim; 
But,  in  that  spasm  of  mortal  pain, 

She  says  to  herself:  "  I've  saved  you,  Jim!" 

Day  by  day,  as  the  end  draws  near, 
To  gentle  question  or  stern  demand, 

Only  that  one  response  they  hear, 

Though  she  lift  to  Heaven  her  wasted  hand. 

"  Nobody  hurt  me !"     They  see  her  die, 

The  same  word  still  on  her  latest  breath , 
With  a  tranquil  smile  she  tells  her  lie, 

And  glad  goes  down  to  the  gates  of  death. 


238  POEMS. 

Beaten,  murdered,  but  faithful  still, 
Loving  above  all  wrong  and  woe, 

If  she  has  gone  to  a  world  of  ill, 

Where,  oh  !  saint,  shall  we  others  go  ? 

Even,  I  think,  that  evil  man 

Has  hope  of  a  better  life  in  him, 
When  she  so  loved  him  her  last  words  ran  : 
"  Nobody  hurt  me !     I've  saved  you,  Jim !" 


ASLEEP. 

IN  summer-time  how  fair  it  showed !  — 
My  garden  by  the  village  road, 
Where  fiery  stalks  of  blossom  glowed, 

And  roses  softly  blushed ; 
With  azure  spires,  and  garlands  white, 
Pale  heliotrope,  the  sun's  delight, 
And  odors  that  perfumed  the  night 

Where'er  the  south-wind  rushed. 

There  solemn  purple  pansies  stood, 
Gay  tulips  red  with  floral  blood, 
And  wild  things  fresh  from  field  and  wood, 
Alive  with  dainty  grace. 


ASLEEP.  239 

Deep  heaven-blue  bells  of  columbine, 
The  darkly  mystic  passion-vine, 
And  clematis,  that  loves  to  twine, 
Bedecked  that  happy  place. 

Beneath  the  strong  unclouded  blaze 
Of  long  and  fervent  summer  days 
Their  colors  smote  the  passing  gaze, 

And  dazzled  every  eye. 
Their  cups  of  scented  honey-dew 
Charmed  all  the  bees  that  o'er  them  flew, 
And  butterflies  of  radiant  hue 

Paused  as  they  floated  by. 

Now  falls  a  cloud  of  sailing  snow, 
The  bitter  winds  of  winter  blow, 
No  blossom  dares  its  cup  to  show  — 

Earth  folds  them  in  her  breast ; 
A  shroud  of  white,  a  virgin  pall, 
Is  slowly,  softly,  hiding  all ; 
In  vain  shall  any  sweet  wind  call 

To  break  their  silent  rest. 

My  garden  is  a  vanished  dream, 
Dead  in  the  waning  moon's  cold  beam, 
Clear  icicles  above  it  gleam ; 

And  yet  —  I  know  not  how  — 
My  flowers  will  hear  the  dropping  rain 
When  Spring  reneweth  hill  and  plain, 
And  then  it  shall  be  mine  again : 

It  is  God's  garden  now. 


240 


THE    GREAT   REPUBLIC. 

JULY   4,    1875. 

HAIL  to  the  Great  Republic ! 
A  hundred  years  ago  to-day 
Cradled  in  woods  and  wilds  she  lay, 
A  new-born  child,  a  sturdy  thing. 
Beside  her  lair  the  forests  swing, 
The  storm-winds  howl,  and  roars  the  river. 
Her  limbs  with  life  and  vigor  quiver ; 
Her  red  lips  burn  with  hate  and  ire; 
Her  eyes  are  lit  with  eager  fire ; 
The  strong  hands  clutch,  the  looks  aspire, 
The  captive  lion's  fierce  desire. 
Flaming  in  every  ray. 

For  she  who  nursed  the  mighty  child 
Was  savage-born  and  savage-bred, 
Her  locks  about  her  bosom  shed, 
And  to  her  broad,  imperial  breast 
The  clinging  infant  hotly  pressed 
To  drain  the  immortal  passion  deep, 
To  wake  the  world  from  sodden  sleep 
With  one  sharp,  daring  cry, 
The  war-note  of  her  infancy. 


THE    GREAT    REPUBLIC. 

For  she  was  born  of  Freedom's  brood. 

Her  mother  trod  the  awful  sea, 

And  dared  the  unknown  solitude, 

To  give  her  child  a  place  to  be 

Where  heaven  and  earth  were  free. 

They  heard  her  cry  at  Lexington, 

It  smote  the  sky  o'er  Bunker  Hill, 

And  bade  the  dead  men  thrill. 

And  turn  within  their  graves  at  Marathon. 

A  cry  the  tempest  hurled 

Far  over  all  the  world, 

That  shook  its  old  domains  with  mortal  fear, 
And  bade  reluctant  tyrants  hear. 

Then  in  the  wide  arena  Freedom  stood, 
And  dipped  the  babe  in  blood. 
Blood  of  the  bravest  and  the  best, 
Out  of  the  wrathful  wine-press  flowing, 
To  set  the  child's  quick  pulses  glowing, 
To  fill  her  lusty  limbs  with  might, 
Her  eyes  with  valor's  flame  to  light, 
And  riot  in  her  swelling  breast. 
She  fed  her  lips  with  bitter  bread, 
That  poverty  she  might  not  dread : 
She  bade  her  sleep  to  cannon  roaring, 
To  mighty  seas  down  mountains  pouring, 

To  whirlwinds  resonant, 
And  ocean's  thundering  chant. 
Then  from  her  gracious  hands  bestowed 
A  sweetness  from  the  summer  gathered, 

16 


242  POEMS. 

Where  the  wild  bees  their  treasure  stowed ; 
An  arrow  from  the  eagle  feathered  ; 
And  laid  upon  her  baby  brow  a  sign, 
A  pledge  of  corn  and  wine. 

"  Go  to  thy  place,  my  child !"  the  Goddess  said 

•"  I  bind  the  stars  about  thine  head, 
For  men  shall  see  that  diadem, 
And  crowd  to  kiss  thy  garment's  hem. 
Be  strong  and  pure ;  I  am  thy  mother ; 
There  runs  no  evil  blood  in  thee. 
Heed  not  the  voice  of  any  other 
Whose  vain  breath  dims  thy  panoply. 
Mighty  and  awful  are  the  free, 
Who  grasp  and  guide  their  destiny. 
Plunged  to  the  lowest  hell  they  be 
Who  soil  and  stain  the  shield  thou  bearest, 
Who  bend  to  dust  the  crown  thou  wearest 
Go,  Freedom's  child !  be  free !" 

Then,  full-armed,  from  the  mother  breast 

The  Young  Republic  leapt,  her  lance  in  rest. 

Alas !  the  new  wine  foamed  too  strong ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  her  spring, 

Like  the  great  oak  that,  ring  on  ring, 

Expands  its  bole  and  spreads  its  boughs, 

All  the  wild  birds  of  heaven  to  house. 

And  confident  in  gracious  power, 

When  alien  skies  began  to  lower, 

She  opened  wide  her  arms  to  all ; 

She  drooped  to  men  her  haughty  head ; 


THE    GREAT    REPUBLIC.  243 

All  outcasts  to  that  shelter  fled ; 

They  dared  on  Freedom's  name  to  call, 

They  stained  her  spotless  shield  with  clay ; 

They  tore  her  diadem  away. 

Ah  !  where  is  Freedom's  daughter  now  ? 

For  she  hath  drunk  the  cup  of  wine 

Mingled  not  by  hands  divine. 

Gold  and  jewels  deck  the  brim 

Fashioned  not  by  seraphim ; 

Vainly  her  sons  deplore, 

And  stretch  their  fettered  hands  in  agony. 

She  sleeps  —  she  dreams  —  she  cannot  feel  nor  see ; 

Wrapped  in  the  magic  web  of  luxury, 

Softly  the  South-wind  lulls  her  —  let  her  be. 

Hurrah  for  the  North-wind  ! 

From  mountain  and  valley 

The  trumpet  awakens ! 
The  sleep  mist  is  soaring, 
The  mad  seas  are  roaring. 
O  daughter  of  Freedom, 
Arouse  from  thy  slumber! 
The  foes  be  upon  thee ! 
Awake ! 

Now  the  earth  shivers ;  from  their  steady  places 
Rock  the  old  hills,  for  over  them  comes  Freedom, 
With  flashing  helm  and  glaive  all  bare  and  shining. 
"  Awake !  awake  !"  she  cries ;    "  awake  and  hear  me ; 
Child  of  the  Gods,  awake!" 


244  POEMS. 

She  heard  and  started  from  her  sleep, 
Her  face  with  shame  and  courage  red ; 
She  bound  the  stars  about  her  head, 
She  bared  her  arm,  she  shook  her  spear ; 
The  drum-roll  sounded  long  and  deep : 
Once  more  in  blood  her  feet  she  laved. 
The  tigress  glaring  in  her  eye, 
The  banner  flaunting  in  the  sky, 
She  rushed  to  war ;  the  land  was  saved. 

Daughter  of  Freedom,  hear  our  votive  song ! 

In  virginal  array 

Girded,  and  crowned  to-day, 
Hear  us  adjure  thee ;  hear  us  pray ! 

We  gave  thee  our  nearest, 

Our  best  and  our  dearest ; 

We  gave  thee  our  tears, 

Our  hopes  and  our  fears, 

To  strew  in  thy  way 

Like  blossoms  of  May; 

A  sacrifice  sweet, 

Trodden  under  thy  feet : 
Lay  thy  right  hand  upon  the  shrine  and  say, 

By  all  the  patriot  blood, 

By  all  thy  martyrs  slain, 

Who  in  the  front  of  battle  stood, 

Who  dared  for  thee  the  fiery  flood, 

Shall  this  be  all  in  vain  ? 

All  the  long  hundred  years 

Of  labor,  triumph,  tears, 


THE    GREAT    REPUBLIC.  245 

t 

Be  as  the  blossom  of  a  day 

By  zephyrs  borne  away  ? 
Forbid  it  all  thy  mother's  agony  ! 
Forbid  it  those  pale  ghosts  that  died  for  thee ! 

No.     I  behold,  down  the  dread  slopes  of  Time, 
A  woman-vision  beauteous  and  sublime ; 
Whose  mother  arms  fold  all  earth's  sufferers  in, 
Her  stainless  hands  destroying  shame  and  sin. 
Her  head  is  bent  to  God  the  Judge  alone, 
The  wayside  rock  her  sole  imperial  throne ; 
Her  starry  crown  uplift  in  heaven  so  high 
It  seems  to  gazing  men  the  starry  sky ; 
Her  deep  eyes  lit  with  cheer  and  peace  serene, 
Her  great  heart  sweet,  her  falchion  swift  and  keen, 
She  broods  the  nations  with  her  sweeping  wings, 
And  o'er  the  world  her  blazoned  banner  swings. 
Hail  to  the  Great  Republic ! 


246 


THE    DREAM    FAY.* 

HARK  !     Am  I  with  the  living,  or  asleep, 

Hearing  the  grass  blades  grow ; 

The  hush  of  blossoms  opening  soft  and  slow> 

The  buzzing  gnats  that  secret  revel  keep ; 

Honey  dropping  tranquilly 

From  the  gold  cells  of  the  bees, 

Buds  that  on  the  dreaming  trees 

A  wistful  night-wind  wakens  tenderly  ; 

Bubbles  whispering  in  the  grape ; 

Mystic  sighs  that  find  escape 

From  the  earth's  o'erladen  breast, 

Stirred  with  spring's  divine  unrest  ? 

Hark  !  hark  !  from  overhead 

The  soft  stroke  of  a  silver  bell 

Pulses  through  the  airy  spell ! 

Thrilled  with  some  delicious  dread, 

I  hear  a  low  and  joyful  song ; 

Fleet,  light  footsteps  of  a  throng 

To  mortal  sight  invisible  ; 

Tiny  laughters  of  a  rill 

The  mountains  from  their  white  breasts  spill  ; 

Gentlest  kisses  that  the  rose, 

Waking  from  the  bud's  repose, 

Gives  the  daring  butterfly 

That  lays  its  deep  heart  open  to  the  sky. 

*  Scherzo.     Queen  Mab.     Berlioz.     Thomas's   Orchestra,    Feb 
ruary  12,  1877. 


THE    DREAM    FAY.  247 

I  hear  the  breaking  icicle  ; 
The  music  of  the  thawing  frost, 
When  the  wood's  light  boughs  are  tossed, 
And  all  their  flashing  jewels  fall. 
I  hear  the  dropping  of  the  dew, 
Tinkling  all  the  forest  through  ; 
And  every  dancing  columbine 
Clinks  its  cups  of  honeyed  wine 
With  the  harebell's  goblet  blue. 
Hark !  I  hear  the  bells  again. 
'Tis  the  coming  fairy  train  : 
Bees  are  singing  in  the  lime, 
Bluebells  ringing  softest  chime. 
Sleeping  birds  that  dream  and  sing, 
Every  head  beneath  a  wing ! 
Doleful  cricket !  gossip  fly  ! 
Wake,  oh  wake !  the  Queen  is  nigh  ! 
Every  little  brooklet's  fall 
Stir  the  night  with  madrigal  ! 
Leaf  and  moss,  and  tiniest  flower, 
WTake  !  it  is  the  fairy  hour  ! 
Hush,  hush,  it  dies  away,  — 
Beyond  the  verge  of  day. 
Broken  forever  is  that  spell  of  power. 
Here  is  but  common  clay, 
Lamps,  and  the  crowd's  array, 
-The  tramp  of  mortal  tread. 
That   wand   hath    dropped ;    those    dreams   in 

darkness  cower ; 
The  hour  has  fled  ! 


248 


A   FUNERAL   PSALM. 

SILENT  we  sat,  within  a  darkened  room ; 

For  in  our  midst,  the  lowering  heart  of  gloom, 

Stood  a  low  bier,  with  blossoms  showered  in  vain 

To  hide  the  ghastly  shape  ofloss  and  pain. 

Still,  still  was  all,  save  when  one  sobbing  breath 

Paid  stifled  tribute  to  the  conqueror  Death ; 

When  suddenly,  outside  the  open  door, 

An  oriole  began  his  song  to  pour; 

Sweet,  liquid,  clear,  triumphant  as  the  morn 

That  scatters  all  the  mists  from  meads  forlorn, 

His  warble  thrilled  the  sunshine  and  the  air, 

And  made  the  emerald  grasses  show  more  fair; 

The  budded  elms  swayed  to  that  living  sound, 

And  some  sweet  madness  spread  through  all  around. 

No  more  I  heard  the  moan  and  plaint  of  prayer ; 

No  more  the  hymn's  low  wailing  held  me  there : 

No  death,  no  grave,  but  heaven's  immortal  Spring 

Did  in  that  silver  cadence  reign  and  ring. 

The  fresh  deep  grass ;  the  buds  on  thickening  trees ; 

The  new-born  life  and  sweetness  in  the  breeze ; 

The  nesting,  nestling  birds,  that  overhead 

Their  little  hammocks  in  the  branches  spread ; 

The  tender  fragrance  from  the  bending  boughs  ; 

The  way-side  blossoms  lifting  sunny  brows  ; 


A    FUNERAL    PSALM. 


249 


The  deep  blue  heaven,  the  gentle  south  wind's  sigh, 
That  like  some  happy,  wandering  child  went  by, 
All  sung  accordant  anthem  in  my  ear  :  — 
"  The  Lord  is  risen  !  why  do  ye  seek  him  here  ? 
His  world,  his  way,  is  life,  not  death  and  woe. 
Look  up  where  his  departing  footsteps  go ! 
The  grave  is  empty  save  of  slumbering  dust. 
The  Lord  is  risen  :  arise,  oh  faith  and  trust ! 
Swing  wide,  ye  gates  of  never-failing  Spring ; 
Hear  the  swift  footsteps  of  your  coming  king ! 
Behold  He  cometh  !  here  is  life  and  joy  ; 
No  winds  shall  scatter  and  no  frosts  destroy. 
Be  glad  for  death,  life's  blind  beguiling  seed ; 
Thy  dead  shall  rise,  for  Christ  is  risen  indeed." 
So  still,  above  the  weeping  and  the  prayer, 
The  Spring's  diviner  message  stirred  the  air; 
And  I,  as  one  escaped  anew  from  prison, 
Sung  to  my  soul  exulting,  "  He  has  risen  !" 


250 


PANE    PICTURES. 


A  WONDER-WORKER  all  night  long 
Has  wrought  his  task  for  me; 

Now,  by  the  cold  and  distant  dawn, 
His  miracles  I  see ; 

His  gravings  on  the  window-pane, 
Of  magic  tracery. 

Here  lifts  an  Alpine  summit,  steep 

As  is  the  heavenly  stair, 
A  way-side  cross  below  the  path, 

But  not  a  pilgrim  there ; 
No  sad  face  of  humanity, 

No  agony  of  prayer. 

And  here,  before  a  lonely  lake, 
A  fringe  of  reeds  and  fern ; 

Across   the  water's  crystal  chill 
No  dying  sunsets  burn. 

You  hear  not  on  that  rushy  shore 
The  call  of  drake  or  tern. 

Here  lies  a  crowd  of  broken  boughs. 

A  windfall  in  the  woods 
Some  wild  and  wandering  hurricane 

Hath   wrecked   these  solitudes : 


PANE    PICTURES.  251 

But  on  that  tangled  dreariness 
No  living  step  intrudes. 

And  here  is  Arctic  waste  and  woe; 

A  glacier's  mighty  face, 
Majestic  in  its  awful  march, 

Slow  seaward  from  its  place. 
Beneath  that  frown  of  solemn  death 

There  lives  no  human  trace. 

But  slowly  from  the  joyful   East 

Ascends   the   dawning   sun ; 
Before   his   look   of  light   and   life 

The  magic   is   undone : 
The   graceful   pictures   on   the   pane 

All   vanish,    one   by   one. 

Alas!    must   all   the   songs    I    sing, 

The  traceries  of  my  brain,  — 
The  little  stories  sad  and  glad, — 

Be   uttered    all    in    vain  ? 
And   vanish   when   the    Master   comes, 

Like   pictures    on   the   pane  ? 

Or   will   they,    in    some   kindly   heart 

Remembered,  sing  and  shine. 
For  wrought  from  man's  humanity 

Not  fleeting  frost,  are  mine ; 
I  love  not  to  be  quite  forgot : 

To    die    and   leave   no   sign. 


252 


OUT   OF   THE    BODY   TO    GOD. 


WEARILY,  wearily,   wearily  : 

Sobbing  through  space  like  a  south-wind, 

Floating  in  limitless  ether, 

Ether  unbounded,  unfathomed, 

Where  is  no  upward  nor  downward, 

Island,  nor  shallow,  nor  shore: 

Wearily  floating   and  sobbing, 

Out  of  the  body  to  God! 

Lost  in  the   spaces   of  blankness, 
Lost  in   the   deepening   abysses, 
Haunted   and   tracked   by   the   past; 
No   more   sweet   human   caresses, 
No   more   the   springing   of  morning, 
Never   again   from   the   present 
Into   a   future   beguiled : 
Lonely,   defiled,   and   despairing, 
Out   of  the   body   to    God! 

Reeling,   and   tearless,   and   desperate, 
On   through    the   quiet   of  ether, 
Helpless,   alone,   and   forsaken, 
Faithless   in   ignorant    anguish, 


OUT    OF    THE    BODY   TO    GOD.  253 

Faithless   of  gasping   repentance, 
Measuring    Him   by    thy   measure,  — 
Measure   of  need   and   desert,  — 
Out   of  the   body   to    God ! 

Soft   through    the   starless   abysses, 
Soft   as   the   breath   of  the   summer 
Loosens   the   chains   of  the  river, 
Sweeping   it   free   to   the   sea, 
Murmurs  a   murmur   of  peace :  — 
"  Soul !    in   the   deepness   of  heaven 
Findest   thou    shallow   or   shore  ? 
Hast   thou   beat   madly   on   limit  ? 
Hast   thou   been    stayed   in   thy   fleeing 
Out   of  the   body   to    God  ? 

"  Thou   that   hast   known    Me   in   spaces 
Boundless,   untraversed,    unfathomed, 
Hast   thou   not   known    Me   in   love  ? 
Am    I,    Creator   and    Guider, 
Less   than    My   kingdom   and    work  ? 
Come,    O   thou   weary   and   desolate ! 
Come   to   the   heart    of  thy    Father 
Home   from   thy   wanderings   weary, 
Home   from    the   lost   to   the    Loving, 
Out   of  the   body    to    God!" 


254 


THE    NETTED    LION, 
u.  s-  G. 

A  MIGHTY  lion  in  the  desert  dwelt ; 

The  dead  sands  trembled  at  his  awful  roar. 

He  held  victorious  sway  from  stream  to  shore; 

Even  as  snows  before  the  south  wind  melt 

So  fled  the  herds  before  him.     Evermore  - 

Conqueror  and  master,  on  his  wrinkled  front 

The  signet  of  his  empery  he  wore. 

The  spotted  tiger  held  him  not  at  bay 

Nor  the  sleek  ounce ;  nor  where  slow  rivers  stray 

Sullen  and  tropic,  reed-hid  as  his  wont, 

Dared  the  dull  monoceros  wait  his  prey, 

When  those  great  footsteps  set  their  print  that  way. 

But  cunning  hunters  found  the  lion's  lair, 

Deep  in  the  jungle,  and  about  his  bed 

Folded  their  slender  nets  as  slumbering  there 

At  rest  from  battle,  with  his  awful  head 

Prone  like  a  lamb's  he  lay  'mid  rank  leaves  spread, 

His  sinews  all  relaxed.     So  still  as  air 

The  subtle  meshes  in  that  misty  night 

Soft  settled  over  him,  and  held  him  tight ; 

A  cobweb,  light  to  feel  but  strong  to  snare. 

Then,  waking  e'er  the  dawn's  first  level  light, 


THE    NETTED    LION.  255 

He  stretched,  and  snuffed,  and  lazily  would  rise, 
But  the  fine  threads  were  tangled  around  his  eyes, 
Hindered  his  struggling  feet,  and  more  and  more 
Vexed  the  tense  muscles  that  against  them  bore 
With  desperate  strength  and  pitiful  surprise, 
His  roar  was  dumb,  his  eyes  of  yellow  flame 
Grew  red  with  terror ;  all  about  him  spread 
The  nets  he  saw  not ;  all  his  stout  heart  bled 
With  pangs  of  terror,  mystery  and  shame ; 
Till,  when  the  slim  dark  hunters  toward  him  came, 
Spying  and  half  afraid,  the  king  lay  dead. 

Oh  lion  of  our  land  !     Men  cast  on  thee 
A  subtle  net,  a  more  relentless  snare, 
As  crowned  with  gifts  and  honors,  thou  didst  fare 
Toward  thy  rest,  in  grave  tranquillity ; 
And  now  thou  liest,  fall'n,  for  all  to  see 
Trapped,  heart-broke,  dying ;  yet  still  brave  to  dare 
The  passage  of  the  vast  unsounded  sea. 
Our  netted  lion,  whom  nor  grief,  nor  prayer, 
Nor  the  loud  call  of  frighted  liberty, 
Shall  ever  from  those  deadly  meshes  free. 
God  help  us  all !     Yea,  God,  in  His  great  might  help 
thee! 


MY    APPLE    TREE. 

OUT  by  my  door  the  apple  tree, 

With  wholesome  hospitality, 

Stretches  abroad  its  friendly  hands 

To  welcome  all  the  airy  bands. 

Its  knotted  branches,  worn  and  gray, 

Show  some  bright  burden  every  day. 

In  Winter-time  the  woodpecker 

Makes  in  those  boughs  his  tiny  stir, 

The  little  tap  of  busy  bill 

The  signal  of  his  work  and  skill : 

With  sober  coat  and  spark  of  red 

Cresting  his  smooth,  obsequious  head, 

He  seems  in  eager  haste  to  be 

Inspecting  that  old  apple  tree. 

There  the  neat  snow-bird  in  the  sun 

Sits  when  his  frugal  meal  is  done; 

For  him  those  pale  and  scanty  rays 

Have  the  kind  charm  of  Summer  days. 

His  slaty  coat  and  snowy  breast 

Like  some  old  Friend  for  meeting  dressed. 

His  aspect  trim,  and  short  black  beak; 

His  shining  eye,  severely  meek; 

His  bold,  familiar,  close  advance, 

With  sidewise  head  and  sidelong  glance, 

Delight  mine  eye  when  cold  winds  blow. 

I  love  him,  but  he  brings  the  snow. 


MY    APPLE    TREE.  257 

Here  when  the  Spring  begins  to  call 
The  sparrow  sings  his  madrigal; 
Through  sleet  and  hail,  in  shine  or  rain, 
I  hear  him  o'er  and  o'er  again  : 
"  Resilio  !    silio  !    silio  !    sil !" 
He  warbles  with  such  cheery  will, 
I  bless  the  sweet,  persistent  song, 
And  wish  my  courage  were  as  strong. 
On  him  the  blue-bird  follows  fast, 
His  whistle  too  defies  the  blast, 
His  bosom  red  and  mantle  blue 
With  the  first  South  Wind's  breath  are  due. 
He  brings  the  blossoms  hope  and  cheer, 
As  deep  in  dust  his  song  they  hear. 
Then  the  fat  robin  bends  the  boughs, 
Prospecting  for  his  summer  house; 
So  red  and  round,  he  seems  to  be 
Himself  an  apple  on  the  tree. 
With  plaintive  song  he  prophesies 
Long  days  of  rain,  though  bright  the  skies; 
And  when  the  sun  returns  once  more 
He  sings  yet  louder  than  before, 
Struts  on  the  fence,  chirps  sharp  and  loud, 
By  no  insulting  rival  cowed, 
With  dauntless  heart  and  ready  wing, 
To  flout  a  rival  or  to  sing. 
Then  come  the  softer  days  and  airs: 
Each  knotted  twig  its  wreath  prepares, 
As  tender  flowers  of  pink  and  pearl 
Those  sturdy  crimson  buds  unfurl, 

17 


258  POEMS. 

Till  all  the  tree  more  lovely  shows, 
Decked  with  its  slight  and  gracious  rose, 
Than  tropic  forests  high  in  air 
Or  almond  blooms  on  branches  bare. 
Then  tiny   warblers  flit  and  sing, 
With  golden  spots  on  crest  and  wing, 
Or,  decked  with  scarlet  epaulette, 
Above  each  dusky  winglet  set, 
They  hunt  the  blossoms  for  their  prey 
And  pipe  their  fairy  roundelay. 
The  crimson  finch,  with  whirr  and  trill 
Painted  like  sunsets,  red  and  chill, 
Perched  in  a  knot  of  blossoms  pale, 
Nods  his  quick  head  and  flirts  his  tail, 
And  calls  his  sober-suited  spouse 
To  dinner  in  the  fragrant  boughs. 
Before  him  tribes  shall  disappear 
That  threat  the  promise  of  the  year; 
And  when  awhile  he  gives  them  rest, 
To  build  his  warm  and  secret  nest, 
The  goldfinch,  social,  chirping,  bright, 
Takes  in  those  branches  his  delight. 
A  troop  like  flying  sunbeams  pass 
And  light  among  the  vivid  grass, 
Or  on  the  end  of  some  long  branch, 
Light  acrobats,  in  air  they  launch, 
And  in  the  wild  wind  sway  and  swing, 
Intent  to  twitter,  glance,  and  sing ; 
Till  overhead  the  oriole 
Pours  out  the  passion  of  his  soul, 


MY    APPLE    TREE.  259 

A  winged  flame  that  darts  and  burns 
Dazzling  where'er  his  bright  wing  turns, 
Yet  fierce  to  scold,  to  rout,  to  fight, 
Battle  with  peers  his  chief  delight, 
And  many  a  song  of  victory 
Awakes  and  thrills  the  apple  tree! 

But  Summer  brings  these  branches  peace; 
The  song  and  strife  of  Spring-time  cease; 
Their  homes  are  built,  each  feathered  breast 
Is  busied  with  its  little  nest. 
Careless  of  praise,  secure  of  food, 
They  keep  the  Father's  promise  good, 
And  preach  their  tender  homily 
Of  hope  and  love  and  trust,  to  me. 

Then  comes  the  ripening  Autumn-time, 
That  rounds  my  tree's  abundant  prime. 
Its  boughs  are  bent  with  fragrant  fruit, 
Flushed  with  the  sun  that  warms  its  root 
And  yellow  as  the  starry  light 
That  rained  from  heaven  each  Summer  night. 
Now  comes  another  noisy  troop, 
On  every  dropping  sphere  to  swoop, 
With  ragged  coats,  and  saucy  eye, 
And  tangled  hair,  they  wander  by, 
Waiting  for  some  kind  moment  when 
The  wind  will  swing  the  gate  again, 
And  leave  their  feet  an  entrance  free 
To  gather  apples  from  my  tree. 


260  POEMS. 

I  do  not  love  them  like  the  birds, 
These  graceless,  chattering,  idle  herds; 
Yet  shall  the  birds  my  bounty  share 
And  these  small  urchins  find  it  spare  ? 
Has  Heaven  no  lesson  taught  to  me 
By  this  my  generous  apple  tree  ? 


R.    W.    EMERSON. 

THERE  is  a  tall  grey  cliff  before  mine  eyes, 

The  haughty  trees,  wind-swept,  bow  down  to  it ; 
Its  crest  is  with  the  coming  day-time  lit, 

But  at  its  foot  the  nestling  wild-flower  lies ; 

All  forest  breaths  below  like  incense  rise, 
And  the  shy  birds  around  it  sing  and  flit. 

So  standeth  he  'mid  men,  supremely  wise, 
Strong,  and  uplifted,  yet  aware  of  all 

That  Nature  hides  from  common  mortal  eyes  : 
The  chariest  bloom,  the  moss  most  fair  and  small, 
The  sun-born  insect  that  with  night  must  fall, 

The  majesty  of  days  that  set  and  rise, 

And  that  deep  thought  that  in  the  human  breast 

Holds  him  for  lifelong  friend  who  knows  and  brings  it 
rest. 


OH  !    LOVE    IS   DEAD. 

WHAT  is  thy  hap,  lamenting  soul  ? 

That  through  the  land,  where  all  may  hear, 
With  visage  drawn  by  pain  and  dole, 

Thou  weepest  loud  with  grief  and  fear. 

"  Oh !  I  have  slain  the  sweetest  wight 

That  e'er  bore  mortal  company  ! 
Therefore,  my  day  is  turned  to  night 
And  over  all  the  earth  I  flee." 

Why,  then,  the  deed  is  o'er  and  done, 
Thy  dead  at  rest  in  kindly  clay ; 

Canst  thou  not  rest,  thou  weary  one, 
And  for  his  shriven  spirit  pray  ? 

"  Alas  !  alas !     No  earth-born  man 

Fell  to  my  dagger's  sudden  thrust ; 
No,  not  since  hoary  time  began 
Hath  such  a  victim  bit  the  dust. 

"  Nor  yet  in  blest  and  sacred  ground, 
Lies  the  cold  corse  bereft  of  life ; 
Nor  at  my  touch  did  any  wound 

Bleed  to  betray  who  sought  the  strife. 


262  POEMS. 

"  Oh  !  Love  is  dead !  Sweet  Love  is  dead ! 

I  slew  him  with  my  reckless  hand ; 
My  life  of  life  my  wrath  has  sped ; 
And  here  a  hopeless  wretch  I  stand." 

Poor  soul,  take  heart ;  remember  them 
Who  did  to  death  the  Lord  of  Love ; 

Who  bound  His  thorny  diadem, 

And  mocked  Him  where  with  death  he  strove ; 

Yet  in  the  Cross's  agony, 

His  lips,  all  pale  with  deathly  dew, 
Cried  to  the  Father's  majesty  : 
"  Forgive !  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

"  But  well  I  knew  what  well  I  wrought. 

I  pined  for  gold  with  sinful  greed; 

For  glittering  gold  I  toiled  and  fought, 

And  killed  my  life's  diviner  need. 

"  So  Love  is  dead ;  sweet  Love  is  dead ! 

Cold  age  is  here  and  I  alone. 
My  gains  are  dust  and  bitter  bread ; 

From  earth  and  heaven  my  hope  is  flown. 

"  Nor  shall  those  dead  lips  cry,  "  Forgive  " ; 

Those  silent  eyes  with  pity  shine  ; 
But  my  lost  soul  shall  writhe  and  live, 
And  thirst  till  death  for  drink  divine." 


THE    SHEEPFOLD. 

A  SILENT  church  on  a  lonely  hill ; 

Beside  it  a  grass-grown  way 
To  the  clustering  gravestones,  white  and  still, 

Where  the  dead,  forgotten,  lay. 

Green  was  the  grass  above  their  sleep, 

And  the  crowding  violets  blue  ; 
And  amidst  them  all,  in  his  slumber  deep, 

Lay  the  good  old  pastor,  too. 

I  thought  of  a  shepherd,  far  away, 

On  the  star-lit  Syrian  plain, 
Asleep  with  his  sheep  till  dawn   of  day 

Shall   waken   them  all   again. 

Such  as  the  shepherds,  long  ago, 
Who   guarded  their  flocks  by  night, 

And  woke  when  the  heavens  were  all  aglow 
With  the  choral  angels'  light. 

But  never  shall  those  who  slumber  here, 
To  the   Christmas  chorus  spring; 

Never  in   awe  and  wonder  hear 
The   Christmas  angels   sing. 


264  POEMS. 

Yet  when  the   Master  of  sheepfolds  calls, 
When  the  last  great  dawn   shall  break ; 
And  his  voice  from  the  heavenly  pasture  falls, 
"  My  shepherds  and  sheep,  awake !" 

These  dead  shall  waken,  their  King  to  greet, 

And  the  shepherd's  answer  be, 
"  Here  am  I,   Lord,  beneath  thy  feet, 
And  the  sheep  that  thou  gavest  me." 


H.    W.    H. 

GIVE   her   the   soldier's   rite ! 
She   fought   the   hardest   fight : 
Not   in    the   storm   of  battle, 
Where   the   drum's   exultant   rattle, 
The   onset's   maddening   yell, 
The   scream   of  shot   and   shell, 
And   the   trumpet's   clangor   soaring 
Over  the   cannon's   roaring, 
Thrilled   every   vein   with   fire, 
And   combat's   mad   desire ; 
She   fought   her  fight   alone, 
To    the   sound   of  dying    groan ; 


H.    W.    H.  265 

The   sob   of  failing   breath, 
The   reveille   of  death; 
She   faced    the   last   of  foes, 
The   worst   of  mortal   woes: 
The   solitude   of  dying, 
The   hearts    for   kindred   crying; 
By   the   soldier's   lonely   bed, 
In   the   midnight   dark    and   dread, 
Mid   the   wounded   and   the   dead, 
With   life-blood   pouring   red, 
The  cries   of  woe    and   fear, 
Rending   the   watcher's   ear, 
The   hovering   wings   of  death, 
Fluttered   by    dying   breath, 
There   was   her   truthful   eye, 
Her   smile's   sweet   bravery, 
Her   strong   word   to   impart 
Peace   to   the   fainting   heart. 

I 

Give   her   the   soldier's   rite ! 
Let   the   old   Seventh    wave 
Their  flag   above  her   grave; 
Let   the   deep   minute   gun 
Tell   of  her   battle   done; 
Lo !    on   the   other  bank, 
Comes   down    a   serried   rank, 
The   souls   she   comforted, 
The   army   of  the   dead ; 
For   her   salute   and   shout : 
Their   victory   is   our   rout. 


266  •       POEMS. 

Give   her   the   soldier's   rite! 
Honor   her   sleep    to-night, 
For   now   she   ranks   us    all. 
Weave   laurels   for   her  pall, 
And   fold   above   her  bier 
The   flag   she   held   so   dear ; 
For   another   fight   is    won, 
Another   soldier   gone 
Through    the   night,    to    the   light 
—  And   another   left   alone  ; 
God   of  battles !    help   us   all ! 

MARCH  3,  1886. 


THE    SNOW-FILLED    NEST. 


IT  swings  upon  the  leafless  tree, 
By  stormy  winds  blown  to  and  fro ; 
Deserted,  lonely,  sad  to  see, 
And  full  of  cruel  snow. 

In  summer's  noon  the  leaves  above 
Made  dewy  shelter  from  the  heat; 
The  nest  was  full  of  life  and  love ;  — 
Ah,  life  and  love  are  sweet ! 


THE    SNOW-FILLED    NEST.  267 

The  tender  brooding  of  the  day, 
The  silent,  peaceful  dreams  of  night, 
The  joys  that  patience  overpay, 
The  cry  of  young  delight, 

The  song  that  through  the  branches  rings, 
The  nestling  crowd  with  eager  eyes, 
The  flutter  soft  of  untried  wings, 
The  flight  of  glad  surprise :  — 

All,  all  are  gone !    I  know  not  where ; 
And  still  upon  the  cold  gray  tree, 
Lonely,  and  tossed  by  every  air, 
That  snow-filled  nest  I  see. 

I,  too,  had  once  a  place  of  rest, 
Where  life,  and  love,  and  peace  were  mine  — 
Even  as  the  wild-birds  build  their  nest, 
When  skies  and  summer  shine. 

But  winter  came,  the  leaves  were  dead; 
The  mother-bird  was  first  to  go, 
The  nestlings  from  my  sight  have  fled; 
The  nest  is  full  of  snow. 


268 


THE    NEW   SANGREAL. 


"Snow  me  the  Sangreal,  Lord !     Show  me  Thy  blood  ! 
Thy  body  and  Thy  blood !     Give  me  the  Quest ! 
Lord,  I  am  faint  and  tired ;  my  soul  is  sick 
Of  all  the  falseness,  all  the  little  aims, 
The  weary  vanities,  the  gasping  joys, 
The  slow  procession  of  this  satiate  world ! 
Dear  Lord,  I  burn  for  Thee !     Give  me  Thy  Quest ! 
Down  through  the  old  reverberating  time, 
I  see  Thy  knights  in  wonderful  array 
Go  out  to  victory,  like  the  solemn  stars 
Fighting  in  courses,  with  their  conquering  swords, 
Their  sad,  fixed  lips  of  purity  and  strength, 
Their  living  glory,  their  majestic  death. 
Give  me  Thy  Quest !     Show  me  the  Sangreal,  Lord !" 

He  lay  upon  a  mountain's  rocky  crest, 
So  high,  that  all  the  glittering,  misty  world, 
All  summer's  splendid  tempests,  lay  below. 
And  sudden  lightnings  quivered  at  his  feet ; 
So  still,  not  any  sound  of  silentness 
Expressed  the  silence,  nor  the  pallid  sun 
Burned  on  his  eyelids ;  all  alone  and  still, 
Save  for  the  prayer  that  struggled  from  his  lips, 
Broken  with  eager  stress.     Then  he  arose. 


THE    NEW    SANGREAL.  269 

But  always,  down  the  hoary  mountain-side, 
Through  whispering  forests,  by  soft-rippled  streams, 
In  clattering  streets,  or  the  great  city's  roar, 
Still  from  his  never  sated  soul  went  up, 
"  Give  me  Thy  Quest !     Show  me  the  Sangreal,  Lord  !" 

Through  all  the  land  there  poured  a  trumpet's  clang, 
And  when  its  silvery  anger  smote  the  air, 
Men  sprang  to  arms  from  every  true  man's  home, 
And  followed  to  the  field.     He  followed,  too,  — 
All  the  mad  blood  of  manhood  in  his  veins, 
All  the  fierce  instincts  of  a  warring  race 
Kindled  like  flame  in  every  tingling  limb, 
And  raging  in  his  soul  on  fire  with  war. 
He  heard  a  thousand  voices  call  him  on : 
Lips  hot  with  anguish,  shrieking  their  despair 
From  swamps  and  forests  and  the  still  bayous 
That  hide  the  wanderer,  nor  bewray  his  -lair ; 
From  fields  and  marshes  where  the  tropic  sun 
Scorches  a  million  laborers  scourged  to  work  ; 
From  homes  that  are  not  homes ;  from  mother-hearts 
Torn  from  the  infants  lingering  at  their  breasts  ; 
From  parted  lovers,  and  from  shuddering  wives; 
From  men  grown  mad  with  whips  and  tyranny  ; 
From  all  a  country  groaning  in  its  chains. 
Nor  sleep,  nor  dream  beguiled  him  any  more ; 
He  leaped  to  manhood  in  one  torrid  hour, 
And  armed,  and  sped  to  battle.     Now  no  more 
He  cried  or  prayed,  —  "  Show  me  the  Sangreal,  Lord!" 


270  POEMS. 

So  in  the  front  of  deadly  strife  he  stood ; 

The  glorious  thunder  of  the  roaring  guns, 

The  restless  hurricane  of  screaming  shells, 

The  quick,  sharp  singing  of  the  rifle-balls, 

The  sudden  clash  of  sabres,  and  the  beat 

Of  rapid  horse-hoofs  galloping  at  charge, 

Made  a  great  chorus  to  his  valorous  soul, 

The  dreadful  music  of  a  grappling  world, 

That  hurried  him  to  fight.     He  turned  the  tide, 

But  fell  upon  its  turning.     Over  him 

Fluttered  the  starry  flag,  and  fluttered  on, 

While  he  lay  helpless  on  the  trampled  sward, 

His  hot  life  running  scarlet  from  its  source, 

And  all  his  soul  in  sudden  quiet  spent, 

As  still  as  on  the  silent  mountain -top ; 

So  still  that  from  his  quick -remembering  heart 

Burst  that  old  cry,  —  "  Show  me  the  Sangreal,  Lord !" 

Then  a  bright  mist  descended  over  him, 
And  in  its  central  glory  stood  a  shape, 
Wounded,  yet  smiling.     With  His  bleeding  hands 
Stretched  toward  that  bleeding  side,  His  eyes  divine 
Like  a  new  dawn,  thus  softly  spake  the  Lord :  — 
"  The  blood  poured  out  for  brothers  is  my  blood; 
The  flesh  for  brothers  broken  is  my  flesh ; 
No  more  in  golden  chalices  I  dwell, 
No  longer  in  a  vision,  angel-borne  : 
Here  is  the  Sangreal,  here  the  Holy  Quest. 
Thy  prayer  is  heard,  thy  soul  is  satisfied : 
Come,  my  beloved !     1  am  come  for  thee. 


A    LEGEND.  271 

As  first  I  broke  the  bread  and  poured  the  wine, 
So  have  I  broken  thee  and  poured  thy  life, 
So  do  I  bless  thee  and  give  thanks  for  thee 
So  do  I  bear  thee  in  my  wounded  hands." 
Smiling,  He  stooped,  and  kissed  the  tortured  brow, 
And  over  all  its  anguish  stole  a  smile ; 
The  blood-sealed  lips  unclosed;  the  dying  breath 
Sighed,  like  the  rain-sound  in  a  summer  wind, 
Sobbing,  but  sweet,  —  "I  see  the  Sangreal,  Lord !" 


A    LEGEND. 

"  HARK  !" 

She  sat  upright  in  her  bed, 
The  gold  hair  from  her  head 
Crisping,   coiling,   wandering  low 
O'er  her  bosom  cold  as  snow. 
For  the  heart  in  her  breast  stood  still, 
And  the  blood  in  her  veins  ran  chill, 
At  the  sound  she  heard  in  the  dark. 

«  Hark  !" 

It  sounded  like  the  scream 
Of  a  dreamer  in   his  dream. 


272  POEMS. 

Yet  her  eyes  were  wide  and  blue, 
Piercing   midnight  through  and  through; 
Her  parted  lips  were  white 
With  the  terror  of  the  night. 
And  her  arms  spread  stiff  and  stark. 

"  Hark  !" 

Wakened  the  mother  mild : 
"  Why  dost  thou  call,  my  child  ? 
The  kindling  morn  is  not  yet  red, 
The  night  is   silent,   the  winds  are  dead. 
To-morrow  thou  art  a  bride : 
Sleep,  darling,  at  my  side." 
But  again  she  whispered,  "  Hark !" 

"  Hark ! 

Hear  the  slow  steps  that  bring, 
Stumbling,  some  dreadful  thing! 
Hear  the  low,  hushed  voices  calling! 
Hear  the  sullen  water  falling ! 
Hear!  oh,  mother,  hear! 
They  are  setting  down   the  bier: 
And  the  watch-dogs  do  not  bark." 

Hark! 

The  sudden  taper  -burned, 
The  key  in  her  cold  hand  turned. 
Nothing  in  the  lofty  hall,  — 
Stillness,  darkness,  over  all. 


A    LEGEND.  273 

"  There  is  not  a  creature  here, 

Nor  bearers,  nor  a  bier, 
Nor  anything  but  the  dark." 

Hark! 

The  wedding-bells  ring  loud, 
The  wedding-revellers  crowd. 
Waiting,  watching,  still  she  stood 
In  her  bovver's  white  solitude, 
Waiting  in  her  bower 
For  the  bridegroom  and  the  hour, 
Watching  the  dial's  mark. 

Hark! 

The  creeping  shadow  is  there : 

He  is  coming  up  the  stair, — 

Coming!     Stumbling  steps  and  slow 

Up  the  stately  staircase  go. 

Low,  hushed  voices,  —  "Bring  him  here. 

Softly!  now  set  down  the  bier." 

Dripping  water's  dropping  fall 

On  the  flagstones  of  the  hall, — 
It  is  this  she  heard  in  the  dark. 

Hark! 

The  tolling  bells  ring  low, 
And  the  mourners  come  and  go. 
Whiter  than  the  palest  bride, 
Low  she  lieth  at  his  side : 

18 


274  POEMS. 

For  she  looked  out  on  the  dead, 
And  her  life  was  smitten  and  sped. 
She  will  nevermore  say,  "  Hark !" 


FLOWERS. 

HER  little  prayer  at  night  she  said, 
Then  looked  with   wistful  eyes, 

Half  tenderly  and  half  afraid, 
Up  to  the  starry  skies. 

For  daily  bread,  ne'er  sought  in   vain, 

She  asked  the  heavenly  powers. 
"  P'ease,   God !"   she  whispered  low  again, 
"  Div'  me  my  daily  f 'owers !" 

Her  daily  flowers,   her  baby  days, 

In   one  bright  garden   flew; 
And  like  a  flower  in  all  her  ways, 

The  dimpled   creature  grew. 

As  fair  and  sweet  a  tiny  maid 

As  any  new-born  blossom 
That  dawn  and  dew's  soft  stress  persuade 

From  mother  earth's  broad   bosom. 


FLOWERS.  275 

And  flowers  like  kin  the  darling  loved; 

She  bore  the  fragrant  band, 
Where'er  she  played,  where'er  she  roved, 

In  apron   or  in  hand. 

And  while  she  prayed,   with  look  askance 

As  if  she  asked  a  treasure 
Too  great  for  God  to  give  perchance 

For  just  her  baby  pleasure, 

I  echoed  in  my  heart  her  prayer, 
Remembering  earth's  sad  hours, 
And  weary  weight  of  sin  and  care, 
"  Give  us  our  daily  flowers ! 

"  The  kindly  word,  the  smile  serene, 

The   greeting  of  good-morrow, 
The  brotherhood  in  speech  and  mien, 
That  soothes  our  common  sorrow. 

"These  human  blossoms  of  the  heart 

Give  to  our  daily  needing! 
Dear  Lord !  are  not  these  too  a  part 
Of  thine  immortal  feeding?" 

And  back  the  sudden  answer  fell : 
"Whate'er  my  hand  hath   given 
My  constant  love  and  care  to  tell, 
Is  truly  bread  from  heaven." 


276 


"SAVE,    OR   I    PERISH." 


I  WALK  amid  a  cloud  of  fear. 

Mine  eyes  are  held,   I   cannot  see; 
Mine  ears  are  sealed,   I   cannot  hear  — 

I   can  but  hold  to  Thee. 

Adrift  upon  this  wandering  world, 
That  rushes  on  through  awful  space, 

A  helpless  atom,  forward  hurled 
To  some  strange  dwelling  place: 

My  struggling  soul  would'  gasp  and  sink 

Amid  this  vague  eternity, 
Or  perish  on  its  fearful   brink, 

But  for  my  hold  on  thee. 

In  desolation  and  despair, 

When  foes  derided,  friends  betrayed, 
The  burden  of  my  bitter  care 

Upon  thy  hands  was  laid. 

But  for  this  strong  and  conscious  trust, 
This  anchor  sure,  what  should   I  be? 

A  creature  of  the  clod  and  dust, 
But  for  my  hold   on  Thee. 


WILLOW.  277 

Father!     Thy  hand  the  wild-bird  brings, 
With  fearless  flight,   from  shore  to  shore, 

Safe  in  that  sheltering  peace  it  sings, 
Howe'er  the  tempest  roar. 

So  tossed,  so  frail,   so  lone  am   ], 
Except  that  hand  my  guidance  be. 

Hear  Thou  my  fearful,  hopeful  cry : 
Dear   Lord,  lay  hold  on  me! 


WILLOW. 


THOU  graceful  golden  willow  tree, 

AVhen  first  I  saw  thy  branches  wave 

There  fell  on  me  a  prophesy 

That  thus  above  my  quiet  grave 

Those  long,  lithe  boughs  should  bend  and  sway 

When  what  I  am  is  passed  away. 

On  thee  the  sun  at  highest  noon 
Pours  all  his  pure  and  fervent  rays. 
The  cold,  sad  splendors  of  the  moon 
Refresh  thee  after  torrid  days, 
And  ever  in  thy  drooping  leaves 
The  sullen  wind  of  midnight  grieves. 


278  POEMS. 

Sometimes  when  laughter's  vague  delight 
Beguiles  these  lips,  too  used  to  pain, 
When  day  outshines  the  coming  night 
And  hope  resumes  her  wistful  reign, 
One  glance  at  thee  will  silence  mirth 
With  the  stern  lesson  "  earth  to  earth." 

Yet,  verdant  fate,  I  love  thee  still, 
I  see  thy  budding  grace  with  joy, 
For  well  I  know  no  mortal  ill 
My  heart  shall  visit  or  annoy 
When  once  beneath  thy  solemn  shade 
This  worn  and  aching  clay  is  laid. 

The  dreary  wreaths  of  drifted  snow 
Shall  linger  long  about  thy  root, 
Above  thee  howling  tempests  blow, 
And  on  the  hillock  at  thy  foot 
Gray  heaps  of  withered  leaves  be  cast 
Before  the  winter's  wailing  blast. 

Still  o'er  my  sleep  thine  arms  shall  bend 
When  all  I  love  and  leave  are  gone, 
A  faithful  if  unconscious  friend 
Beside  the  chamber  strait  and  lone, 
That  waits  my  long  and  tranquil  rest, 
Safe  in  the  dumb  earth's  gracious  breast. 

Yet  not  unguerdoned  shalt  thou  be. 
The  atoms  which  this  frame  compose, 
By  Nature's  mightiest  mystery, 


WILLOW.  279 

Shall  leave  at  length  their  first  repose, 
And  in  thy  growth  from  sun  and  rain 
Revisit  air  and  light  again. 

Unlinked  from  soul  and  consciousness, 
The  life  that  glowed  in  lip  and  eye, 
That  paint  the  spirit's  transient  dress 
With  tender  tints  and  varied  dye, 
Shall  course  in  thine  expanding  veins, 
Free  from  the  bond  of  human  pains. 

But  when  the  Lord's  triumphal  voice 

Shall  bid  his  sleeping  host  arise, 

And  in  their  bridal  robes  rejoice 

To  meet  him  in  the  rending  skies, 

His  hand  shall  bring  from  sea  and  shore 

These  scattered  grains  of  dust  once  more. 

Perhaps  the  atoms  once  my  own, 
Long  since  incorporate  in  thee, 
Shall,  from  the  seed  my  God  has  sown 
Spring  up  to  immortality, 
And  in  my  soul's  new  dwelling-place 
Reflect  the  glory  of  His  face. 

Therefore  I  watch  with  eagerness 
To  see  the  Spring  advance  in  bloom, 
And  long,  pale  leaves  with  verdure  dress 
Thy  weeping  garlands  for  the  tomb, 
Since  what  I  am  may  yet  be  thine 
And  part  of  thee  at  length  be  mine. 


280 


DEAD    IN   THE    NEST. 
[FROM  AN  EPITAPH  IN  AN  ENGLISH  CATHEDRAL. ] 

SHE  lay  in  her  cradle,  sweet  and  fair, 
With  smiling  lips  like  a  daisy's  bloom, 

A  cloud  of  lace  on  the  silk-white  hair 
And  slumber  veiling  her  eyes'  soft  gloom. 

A  dew-drop  gleamed  on  the  blue-veined  brow, 
Where  priestly  fingers  the  cross  had  signed, 

The  tearful  token  of  many  a  vow 
That  baby  spirit  to  guard  and  bind. 

Still  she  slept,  for  the  rite  was  done, 

The  choral  hushed  and  the  prayers  all  said, 

The  life  for  Heaven  on  earth  begun, 

The  chrismal  dews  on  her  forehead  shed. 

One  by  one  the  sponsors  came, 
Gifts  of  price  at  her  feet  to  lay  — 

A  golden  cup,  with  the  sweet  new  name ; 
A  string  of  pearls  for  the  baby's  day ; 

Ermine  mantle  and  robe  of  silk, 

Thick  and  heavy  with  broidered  show  ; 


DEAD    IN    THE    NEST.  281 

And  silver  bells,  as  white  as  milk, 
Frosted  like  lilies  all  a-row ; 

Carven  coral  and  filmy  lace ; 

Velvet  shoes  for  the  tiny  feet ; 
Babies  to  stare  in  the  baby's  face, 

With  silent  smiles  for  her  laughter  sweet. 

Heiress  she  of  a  lineage  proud, 

Tender  bud  of  a  stately  tree ; 
Over  her  cradle  bend  and  crowd 

Lord  and  lady  of  high  degree. 

Gift  on  gift  in  her  nest  they  lay, 

Knight,  and  squire,  and  priest,  and  nun ; 

Till  the  christening  guests  are  all  away 
And  earth  is  red  with  the  setting  sun. 

Still  she  sleeps  ?"     'Tis  the  mother  calls. 
"  Still,  my  lady;  nor  sound  nor  sigh." 
Ah  !  through  the  lofty  castle  walls. 
Rings  a  sudden  and  fearful  cry. 

Yes,  she  sleeps !  in  her  hour  of  pride, 
Crushed  by  splendors  above  her  spread; 

Of  heavy  treasures  the  child  hath  died, 
Stifled  and  cold  in  her  gorgeous  bed. 

Sleeps  she  now  forever  and  aye. 
Long  ago  did  the  legend  bloom ; 


282  POEMS. 

The  baby  blossom  who  died  that  day 
Is  but  dust  in  a  lordly  tomb. 

Yet  the  story  lives  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Still  as  the  swift  years  onward  roll, 
Earth's  heaped  riches  have  crushed  far  more 

Many  and  many  a  living  soul ! 


TWO. 


How  airily  she  fled  away, 
As  if  she  threw  a  kiss  to  me ! 
"  Farewell !  farewell !     I  had  my  day ; 
To  other  lands  I  flee." 
Alas !    what  did  she  bring  to  me  ? 
A  fervent  heart,  an  eager  faith, 
And  love's  abundant  charity. 
She  came  with  them,  with  her  they  fled. 
Beneath  her  feet,  where  roses  glowed, 
And  virgin  lilies  purely  showed, 
To-day  the  purple  flowers  of  death 
Send  forth  a  faint  and  cheerless  breath, 
With  here  and  there  a  violet 
Beneath  the  briers  set. 


TWO.  283 

With  open  hands  she  came  to  me; 
She  brought  her  guerdons  with  a  smile : 
Was  never  smile  more  sweet  to  see, 
More  full  of  loveliness  and  guile; 
For,  oh !    how  soon  she  fled  away, 
And  took  the  gifts  I  thought  would  stay! 
For  loss  or  pain  she  had  no  ruth; 
For  trust  she  gave  no  living  truth. 
Good-by,  sweet  Youth ! 

Now  here  I  have  a  canoness 

With  reliquary  and  with  cross, 

With  dusky  veil  and  sober  dress, 

And  sad  sweet  eyes  that  tell  of  loss. 

The  almond  blossoms  on  her  head, 

Her  step  is  still,  her  voice  is  calm; 

No  rose  upon  her  cheek  is  shed, 

But  in  her  hand  she  bears  its  balm. 

Oh,  friend,  dear  friend,  1  know  thy  gifts  : 

The  chastened  heart,  the  humbled  will; 

Faith  that  to  heaven  the  soul  uplifts, 

Though  conscious  of  earth's  failure  still; 

Love  that  was  dead,  but  lives  again, 

No  more  for  one  alone,  but  all, 

As  harvests  spring  from  scanty  grain 

Beneath  the  rains  of  Fall ; 

Hope  that  no  longer  nestles  here, 

But  heavenward  spreads  her  stately  wing, 

And  learns  in  that  high  atmosphere 

Fruition's  song  to  sing; 


284  POEMS. 

Hearts  that  I  trusted  and  found  true, 
More  precious  that  they  count  so  few; 
And  home  so  near  I  almost  see 
The  shining  of  its  majesty. 
Dear  promise,  kept  for  life's  last  page, 
All  this  I  owe  thee,  Age ! 


MY    FIRE. 


HERE  all  day  long,  in  storm   or  sun, 
My  bright  companion  flickers  still ; 

Its  purr  and  crackle  never  done, 

Its  warmth  unvexed  by  change  or  chill 

Gay  comrade  of  my  solitude, 

That  can  not  weary  or  intrude. 

Sometimes  it  flashes  red  and  high, 
To  meet  and  scoff  the  hissing  snow; 

Sometimes,  with  gentler  ministry, 

Its  saffron  flames  burn  soft  and  low; 

Or  quivering  tongues   of  sapphire  light 

Leap  upward  in  their  fierce  delight. 


MY    FIRE.  285 

Like  prisoned  spirits  of  the  air 
Set  free  by  magic  sign  and  spell, 

Their  tints  the  artist's  fond  despair, 
Such   hues  as  speech  is  vain  to  tell, 

The  sparkling,  wavering,   wayward  fires 

Adorn  my  summer's  funeral  pyres. 

For  here  are  boughs  from  many  a  tree 
That  underneath  the  brightening  sun 

Put  forth   their  lovely  mystery 

Of  leaf  and  flower  e'er  spring  was  done, 

And  when  the  autumn   winds  blew  rude, 

The  grass   with   gold  and  crimson  strewed. 

And  here  the  maple's  shapely  head, 
The  beeches'  bole  of  velvet  gray, 

The  fragrant  birch   whose  branches  spread 
With  airy   dance  and  graceful  sway, 

The  walnut,   odorous,   straight,   and  tall, 

In  ashes  expiate  their  fall. 

No  more  for  them  the  zephyrs  sing 

In  wistful  music  all  night  long; 
No  more  their  restless  crests  shall  swing 

Before   the   storm's  triumphant  song; 
No  verdant  plume  or  crown  of  gold 
Those  prostrate  trunks  shall   e'er  uphold. 

With  ruthless  hand  the  ringing  steel 
Fell  fast  on   every  sturdy  side ; 


286  POEMS. 

The  wild  birds  saw  them  swerve  and  reel, 

And  screamed  the  death-cry  of  their  pride. 
Shall  ever  might  of  man  restore 
Their  stately  strength  to  hill  or  shore  ? 

Fallen  are  the  mighty  from  their  ranks ; 

The  squirrel's  home,  the  oriole's  nest, 
Low  on  the  forest's  mossy  banks, 

Shorn   of  their  kingly  splendors,  rest. 
For  this,  long  years  of  sim  and  rain, 
Of  growth  and  glory  —  all  in  vain. 

Yet  could  they  feel  the  pang  of  fate, 
To  them  these  chill  and  moaning  airs, 

Might  whisper:    "Whether  soon  or  late, 
Nature  some  death  for  all  prepares. 

The  use  of  beauty  and  its  glow, 

Few  but  her  favorite  children  know. 

"  To  wave  beneath  the  starry  sky, 

To  rest  the  earth  with   shade  and  dew, 
Then,  when  the  glare  of  noon  goes  by, 

To  live  again  in  service  true, 
A  shivering  mortal's  life  to  cheer  — 
What  more  could   Nature  give  ye  here  ?" 

And  I  beside  this  friendly  blaze 

Look  back  to  mourn  my  fallen  trees, 

Yet  praise  them  in  these  wintry  days 

More  than  when  bloom  delights  the  bees  — 


AN    END.  287 

My  consolation  and  my  cheer 

Through  the  long  dead-watch  of  the  year. 

Could  I  such  peace  and  comfort  be, 
So  genial  and  so  bright  a  friend  — 

Such  innocent  hilarity 

Be  mine  to  life's  remotest  end  — 

Ah  me!   how  little  should  I  care 

To  turn  to  ashes  and  to  air! 


AN    END. 

I  HAVE  had  all :  over  and  in  that  all, 
Like  the  soul's  speck  of  fire  in  a  man's  eye, 
One  little  mote  did  crawl 
And  spread  and  fly,  till  wide  eternity 
Straightened  itself  to  measure  out  a  pall 
Where  I  might  lie. 

Life  tempted  me,  as  the  great  hungry  sea 
Calls  with  inevitable  voice  to  youth  : 
Why  should  I  turn  and  flee  ? 
Nor  fear,  nor  ruth,  nor  the  still  voice  of  truth 
Kept  the  red  wine  or  bitter  lees  from  me : 
I  lived,  forsooth ! 


288  POEMS. 

All  things  of  earth  in  sequence  of  their  birth 

Sprang  to  my  fevered  lips  and  met  disdain, 

Mad  in  its  angry  mirth. 

Love's  honeyed  gain  was  the  bee's  patient  pain, 

Wrought  for  no  worth. 

I  have  had  all.     1  had  it  all  in  vain  ! 

As  in  the  cup  where  the  brown  night-moths  sup, 
Under  the  honey,  under  the  perfume, 
One  little  spot  looks  up, 

And  through  that  bloom  foretells  the  seed-time's  gloom, 
So  my  unsated  thirst  in  each  drained  cup 
Found  lurking  room. 

Yet  I  know  God  hung  over  me  this  rod 
That  I  should  follow  where  two  bleeding  feet 
Before  this  track  have  trod : 
And,  as  earth's  sweet  is  finite,  incomplete, 
He  satiates  me  whose  infinite,  complete, 
Fills  star  and  sod. 


289 


COMING. 


AT  last  the  breath  of  Spring  begins  to  stir 
Nature's  dry  bones  down  in  their  sepulchre  : 
There  is  new  grass  in  green  blades  here  and  there, 
And  little  birds  a-singing  in  the  air; 
Warm  morning  sunshine  on  the  roof  is  shed, 
And  gray  woods  thicken  on  the  mountain's  head ; 
Now  doves  strut  out  to  preen  them  every  one, 
And  puff  their  purple  breasts  before  the  sun ; 
Full  set  with  buds  are  all  the  happy  trees, 
Warmed  to  the  quick  by  every  toying  breeze ; 
A  murmurous  breathing  seems  to  wake  with  day; 
Gold  dandelions  shine  along  the  way : 
Life  is  come  back,  and  death  with  sullen  face 
Steals  off,  and  leaves  a  blessing  in  his  place. 
Awake,  O  north  wind !  come,  thou  south,  and  blow 
Till  from  these  gardens  all  their  spices  flow  ; 
Haste,  tender  blossoms,  hiding  in  the  sod, 
To  lift  your  small  sweet  faces  up  to  God. 
All  chirping  creatures  that  the  forests  hold, 
Utter  aloud  your  voices  manifold. 
And  let  us  sing,  even  as  the  bluebirds  do, 
Although  our  feet  are  standing  in  the  dew, 
And  there  be  frosts  to  pinch  us  from  the  north, 
Yet  sing  !  oh,  sing  !  for  Spring  is  coming  forth. 

19 


290  POEMS. 

There  will  be  pink-heaped  orchards  by-and-by, 
And  flashing  storms,  and  thunder  in  the  sky, 
High  pearl-topped  clouds  along  the  heavenly  plain, 
Bright  clearing  sunsets,  rainbows  after  rain, 
Soft  sultry  nights,  and  greenest  fields  of  grain, 
All  loved  and  lovely  things,  when  Spring  has   come 
again  ! 


"H^RET   LATERI." 


WHY  dost  thou  wear  thy  mother's  name, 
Her  trick  of  speech,  her  lonely  eyes, 

And  set  the  sorrow  all  aflame 

That  smouldering  deep  in  ashes  lies 

We  think  that  grief  for  aye  is  gone 
When  time  has  dried  our  daily  tears, 

And  anguish  made  its  last  faint  moan, 
Choked  with  the  dust  of  frequent  years. 

With  shrouded  heart  and  smiling  face, 
Idly  we  tread  the  ways  of  men ; 

We  hide  our  dead  in  some  still  place, 
And  think  they  never  rise  again. 


"FUERET    LATERI.  29! 

Oh,  futile  courage  of  despair ! 

Poor  subterfuge  of  hearts  that  break  ! 
What  death  can  stop  the  pulse  of  care  ? 

What  memory  sleep,  and  never  wake  ? 

Ambushed  on  every  mortal  path, 
Veiled  by  the  very  wreaths  of  joy, 

Lies  eager  Fate's  relentless  wrath, 
And  waits  its  moment  to  destroy. 

A  step  —  and  all  our  dream  is  fled : 
The  looks,  the  tones,  we  knew  of  yore. 

The  silent  faces  of  the  dead, 

Turned  sadly  to  that  other  shore 

The  unresponding  cruel  lips, 

The  frozen  lids,  the  pallid  cheek, 
An  instant  flash  from  death's  eclipse, 

The  clear  eyes  shine,  the  red  lips  speak. 

And  where  one  burning  tear  of  woe 

On  the  new  grave  in  silence  fell, 
A  thousand  drops  fall  hot  and  slow, 

The  longer  agony  to  tell. 

For  joy  is  but  the  dreamer's  part, 

That  taunts  the  soul  and  mocks  the  eye ; 

But  sorrow  clings,  and  cleaves  the  heart, 
Till  heart  and  grief  together  die. 


ON   THE   TRACK. 

I  WALK  the  track  with  doubtful  mind, 
I  look  before  me  and  behind : 
A  moment  since  the  thundering  train 
Sped  o'er  it  and  was  gone  again. 

Now  as  I  tread  with  wary  feet 
The  path  it  passed,  a  terror  fleet 
I  think  of  all  that  might  have  been 
Did  not  that  moment  intervene. 

The  sudden  dread,    the  haste  to  fly, 
The  hopeless  look  at  yon  blue  sky, 
The  stumbling  foot,  the  helpless  fall, 
A  crash,  a  quiver;  that  were  all. 

My  soul  recoils,  my  flesh  is   faint, 
With  horror  language  dare  not  paint : 
Nor  looking  on,  nor  looking  back, 
I  hasten  from  that  fearful  track. 

Yet  when  I  sit  alone  and  think 
How  near  I  stood  to  danger's  brink; 
Some  mocking  spirit  seems  to  say, — 
"  Where  art  thou  walking  every  day  ? 


ON    THE    TRACK.  293 

A  track  that  surely  leads  to  death 
Thou  treadest  since  thine  earliest  breath  : 
A  certain,  fixed,  relentless   road 
Unwinds  before  thee,  strait  or  broad. 

There  dangers   frown,  and  woes  impend; 
Here  springs  a  foe,  there  fails  a  friend, 
A  mortal  shadow  falleth  here, 
And  there  a  still   more  mortal  fear. 

Some  heavy  grief,  some  woful  fall, 
Some  madness  shall  thy  soul  appal, 
And  o'er  the  track  where  thou  hast  gone 
Thy  certain  death   comes  swiftly  on. 

Nor  canst  thou  in  thine  agony 
Beyond  this  track  for  safety  flee, 
Thy  fate  is  fixed,  thine  end  is  sure, 
Poor  soul,  be  silent  and  endure ! 


294 


ALL     FORWARD! 

AIR — GARIBALDI'S  HYMN. 

ALL  forward  !     All  forward ! 
All  forward  for  battle !  the  trumpets  are  crying, 
Forward  !     All  forward !     Our  old  flag  is  flying, 
When  Liberty  calls  us,  we  linger  no  longer. 
Rebels,  come  on  !  though  a  thousand  to  one, 
Liberty  !  Liberty  !  deathless  and  glorious, 
Under  thy  banner  thy  sons  are  victorious, 
Free  souls  are  valiant  and  strong  arms  are  stronger. 
God  shall  go  with  us,  and  battle  be  won. 

Hurrah  for  the  banner! 

Hurrah  for  the  banner! 
Hurrah  for  our  banner,  the  flag  of  the  free ! 

All  forward !     All  forward ! 
All  forward  for  Freedom !     In  terrible  splendor 
She  come  to  the  loyal  who  die  to  defend  her. 
Her  Stars  and  her  Stripes,  o'er  the  wild  wave  of  battle, 
Shall  float  in  the  heavens  to  welcome  us  on. 
All  forward  to  glory !  though  life-blood  is  pouring, 
Where   bright    swords    are   flashing   and    cannon   are 

roaring ; 

Welcome  to  death  in  the  bullet's  quick  rattle, 
Fighting  or  falling  shall  Freedom  be  won. 


ALL    FORWARD  !  295 

Hurrah  for  the  banner ! 
Hurrah  for  the  banner ! 
Hurrah  for  our  banner,  the  flag  of  the  free ! 

All  forward  !     All  forward ! 

All  forward  to  conquer !  where  free  hearts  are  beating, 
Death  to  the  coward  who  dreams  of  retreating ! 
Liberty  calls  us  from  mountain  and  valley, 
Waving  her  banner,  she  leads  to  the  fight. 
Forward !  all  forward !  the  trumpets  are  crying, 
The  drum  beats  to  arms,  and  our  old  flag  is  flying. 
Stout  hearts  and  strong  hands  around  it  shall  rally. 
Forward  to  battle  for  God  and  the  right ! 

Hurrah  for  the  banner ! 

Hurrah  for  the  banner! 
Hurrah  for  our  banner,  the  flag  of  the  free ! 

JUNE,  1861 


296 


IN    THE    HAMMOCK. 


How  the  stars  shine  out  at  sea! 
Swing  me,  Tita  !     Faster,  girl ! 
I'm  a  hang-bird  in  her  nest, 
All  with  scarlet  blossoms  drest, 
Swinging  where  the  winds  blow  free 

Ah!    how  white  the  moonlight  falls. 
Catch  my  slipper!    there  it  goes, 
Where  that  single  fire-fly  shines, 
Tangled  in  the  heavy  vines, 
Creeping  by  the  convent  walls. 

Ay  de  mi !    to  be  a  nun ! 
Juana  takes  the  veil  to-day, 
She  hears  mass  behind  a  grate, 
While  for  me  ten  lovers  wait 
At  the  door  till  mass  is  done. 

Swing  me,  Tita!    Seven  are  tall. 
Two  are  crooked,  rich,  and  old, 
But  the  other  —  he's  too  small; 
Did  you  hear  a  pebble  fall  ? 
And  his  blue  eyes  are  too  cold. 


AGAIN.  297 

If  I  were  a  little  nun, 

When  I  heard  that  voice  below, 

I  should  scale  the  convent  wall: 

I  should  follow  at  his  call, 

Shuddering  through  the  dreadful  snow. 

Tita!    Tita!    hold  me  still! 

Now  the  vesper  bell  is  ringing, 

Bring  me  quick  my  beads  and  veil. 

Yes,  I  know  my  cheek  is  pale 

And  my  eyes  shine  —  I've  been  swinging. 


AGAIN. 
"AFTER  MANY  DAYS." 

DARLINGS  of  the  forest, 

Now  ye  come  again, 
Where  my  heart  is  sorest 

Waking  all  its  pain, 
Till  every  tender  bud  is  wet  with  tears  like  rain. 

In  your  patient  fashion, 
Lonely  and  most  fair, 


298  POKMS. 

Speak  to  mortal  passion, 

Quiet  its  despair 
With  odors  floating  up  like  some  sweet  childish  prayer. 

Not  one  rosy  blossom, 

Not  one  sheltering  leaf. 
But  within  my  bosom 

Wakes  a  thought  of  grief: 
So  blest  ye  knew  me  once ;  that  blessing  was  so  brief. 

Not  to-day's  dear  treasure 

In  my  new  life  set 
Fills  my  heart's  full  measure 

So  that  I  forget 
All  that  lost  life  of  old,  or  dulls  my  keen  regret. 

Clusters  without  number 

Lie  about  my  feet, 
Smiling  in  their  slumber 

Innocent  and  sweet, 
As  if  no  tears  were  yours,  no  blessings-  bright  and  fleet. 

So  while  I  must  sorrow, 

Yet  your  baby  smile, 
Careless  of  to-morrow, 

Shall  that  grief  beguile, 
And  teach  me  earth's  sad  hope  —  we  last  so  little  while ! 

Spring  so  soon  is  over, 
Sunshine,  snow,  and  rain, 


THE    FLOWER    SOWER.  299 

I,  your  long-time  lover, 
When  ye  come  again 
Perhaps  may  bloom  like  you,  beyond  all  mortal  pain. 


THE    FLOWER   SOWER. 

"  WHAT  shall  I  do  ?"  said  a  little  maid 
To  the  priest  in  his  dark  confessional. 

"  Of  life,  O  father !  I  grow  afraid  : 
If  in  my  cell  I  could  have  stayed,  — 
But  father  and  mother  loudly  call, 
I  am  their  darling  and  their  all. 
I,  that  have  grown  away  from  the  world, 
Safe  as  a  fern  leaf's  frond  uncurled, 
What  shall  I  do  in  the  day  of  trouble  ? 
How  shall  I  breast  this  earthly  strife  ? 
Prayer  and  penance  shall  I  redouble  ? 
Father  !  oh,  father !  I  dread  my  life !" 
The  priest  was  old  and  worn  and  gray  : 
He  had  breasted  all  the  storms  of  living, 
Or  ever  he  laid  his  life  away 
In  a  silent  cell,  to  dream  and  pray 
Beyond  the  work  of  his  Master's  giving. 
Grief  and  loss  and  mortal  pain 
Nevermore  could  he  know  again ; 


300  POEMS. 

For  all,  aye  all,  he  had  loved  and  lost, 
And  the  river  of  death  he  had  almost  crossed. 
Yet  at  the  cry  of  the  little  maid, 
Of  life  and  living  and  strife  afraid, 
The  world  came  back  that  his  eyes  had  seen, 
The  cloud  and  sunshine  that  once  had  been. 
He  looked  behind  him  and  saw  the  dead, 
And  the  living  whose  trust  and  love  had  fled, 
The  false  and  faithful,  the  hearts  that  died 
In  throbbing  bosoms  of  poisonous  pride, 
The  bright  eyes  dimmed,  the  red  lips  paled, 
The  hearts  that  were  tempted,  the  hearts  that  failed. 
And  before  that  innocent  child  he  quailed ; 
He  shut  his  lips,  like  a  sepulchre, 
And  never  a  word  he  answered  her. 
But  in  the  stress  of  piteous  fear, 
She  noticed  not  his  dumb  dismay ; 
With  many  a  softly-dropping  tear 
She  murmured  on  till  she  said  her  say  : 
"  If  I  were  a  queen,  with  a  knightly  guard 
To  keep  all  evil  and  harm  away, 
I  should  rest  in  their  watch  and  ward ; 
I'd  sleep  all  night  and  sing  all  day ; 
Or  were  I  a  nun,  I  could  fast  and  pray, 
Safe  inside  of  the  convent  walls ; 
All  my  life  in  the  shade  I'd  stay, 
'Broidering  chasubles,  copes,  and  palls. 
But  I  am  only  a  burgher  maid. 
I  must  to  kirk  and  market  go ; 
By  the  crowd  of  people  be  stirred  or  stayed ; 


THE    FLOWER    SOWER.  3O1 

In  the  city  streets  walk  to  and  fro ; 
Have  my  raiment  to  shape  and  sew; 
Flagons  to  scour,  and  wool  to  spin : 
How  can  I  serve  the  dear  God  so, 
Or  keep  my  spirit  from  worldly  sin  ?" 
Simple  and  sweet  as  a  wilding  flower 
That  nestles  beneath  a  mighty  tree, 
The  childish  words  had  a  forceful  power 
To  set  the  dumb  man's  silence  free. 
Softly  he  spoke  :  — 

"  I  give  to  thee 
A  daily  service  for  God  to  do  : 
Work  that  shall  keep  thee  safe  and  true, 
Whatever  evil  shall  walk  abroad. 
When  loss  and  passion  beset  thy  road, 
And  prayer  and  penance  have  no  avail, 
This  shall  hold  thee  with  bands  of  steel, 
Fast  and  strong  to  the  Maker  of  man. 
A  worker,  thou,  in  that  wisdom's  plan 
His  lips  to  suckling  and  babe  reveal. 
But  work  thou  truly,  through  woe  and  weal, 
Though  love  beguile  thee  or  hatred  ban. 
Sow  by  the  wayside  every  day 
Seeds  of  the  common  flowers  that  grow 
In  field,  or  wood,  or  the  king's  highway, 
But  only  those  that  gayly  blow. 
Scatter  them  daily  up  and  down, 
In  the  dirty  lane  and  glittering  town, 
By  every  path  where  the  children  play, 
By  every  road  where  the  beggars  stray, 


302  POEMS. 

By  the  church's  door,  and  the  market  stall, 
By  peasant's  hut,  and  by  castle  wall : 
Let  not  one  sun  go  down  and  say 
'  She  hath  not  planted  a  flower  to-day.' 
•     Not  to  every  hand  is  it  given 

To  set  a  tree  that  shall  rise  toward  heaven, 

Nor  yet  to  make  a  garden  fair, 

With  costly  roses  and  tulip  flames, 

And  blossom  bells  so  rich  and  rare 

That  the  lip  is  daunted  with  their  names; 

But  the  simplest  maid  can  scatter  seeds 

In  every  crevice,  by  every  path ; 

And  blossoms  may  overgrow  the  weeds, 

And  the  earth  grow  beauty  instead  of  wrath." 

The  little  maid  arose  and  smiled ; 

The  priest  had  forgotten  his  dreary  moods. 

He  looked  in  her  face  like  a  mother  mild, 

And  said,  "  I  have  used  similitudes." 

But  she  was  only  a  simple  child 

Fresh  from  the  convent  solitudes. 

She  took  the  words  in  her  heart  away, 

With  pure  intention  to  obey ; 

And  scattered  along  her  daily  way 

By  kirk,  or  market,  or  castle-wall, 

Seeds  of  lavender  sweet  and  grey ; 

Pellitory,  that  crests  the  wall ; 

Violets,  sweetest  of  them  all ; 

Poppies,  that  flaunt  so  red  and  tall ; 

Mignonette,  and  daisies  pink  ; 

Crimson  balm,  like  a  prince's  plume ; 


THE    FLOWER    SOWER.  303 

Mourning  brides  in  their  purple  gloom ; 

Honey-horns,  where  the  gold  bees  drink ; 

Speedwell,  and  blue  forget-me-not ; 

Four  o'clocks,  that  love  the  sun  ; 

Sapphire  larkspurs,  nodding  bells 

Of  spotted  fox-gloves  from  woodland  dells, 

Bindweed  white,  and  the  purple  cups 

Of  morning- vine,  that  the  young  dew  sups, 

But  shrinks  and  closes  when  day  is  done  ; 

Blossoms  more  than  speech  can  tell, 

Nodding,  crowding,  from  hill  and  dell,  — 

Everywhere  about  they  grew. 

They  made  sweet  riot  in  the  air, 

Their  odors  all  abroad  they  threw, 

Bright  and  lavish  without  a  care. 

Smiling  up  into  every  face 

With  a  lovely  look  of  silent  grace, 

Covering  ruin  and  old  decay 

With  a  veil  of  tranquil  tenderness, 

Intent  alone  to  deck  and  bless 

Whatever  came  in  their  loving  way. 

And  many  a  hard  man  turned  to  say 

With  trembling  lips  an  orison, 

When  clinging  branches  and  blossoms  gay 

By  his  prison  window  would  wave  and  run. 

The  weary  woman  and  working  man 

Blessed  in  their  hearts  the  wayside  flowers, 

As  fair  to  them  as  are  royal  bowers 

To  kings  and  queens  in  their  languid  hours ; 

And  many  a  toiling  artisan 


304  POEMS. 

Gathered  a  thought  for  his  handicraft 

From  the  graceful  blooms  that  round  him  laughed. 

And  every  day  the  little  maid 

Grew  less  and  less  of  her  life  afraid, 

For  toil  and  trouble  were  all  forgot ; 

The  strife  and  sinning  vexed  her  not ; 

Her  fear  and  sorrow  were  both  allayed, 

And  peace  on  the  day's  poor  duties  laid,  — 

Peace,  that  from  heaven  on  white  wings  strayed : 

When  she  saw  the  light  in  gloomy  eyes 

Flash  at  a  blossom's  sweet  surprise, 

And  children  running  the  flowers  to  pull, 

With  lips  of  laughter  and  small  hands  full. 

And  the  blessing  of  Him  who  sees  through  all 

The  whirl  of  the  worlds  that  on  him  call 

The  tiniest  sparrow's  fluttering  fall, 

And  makes  for  His  children  the  blossoms  small, 

Fell  on  her  heart  like  morning  dew, 

And  filled  her  being  with  gladness  true, 

Though  she  never  guessed  what  the  old  priest  meant 

When  a  seed-sower  into  the  world  he  sent. 

Is  there  a  moral  ?     Ah,  my  dears, 

Whatever  can  dry  a  weeper's  tears, 

Or  out  of  sorrowful  eyes  beguile 

A  happy  look  or  a  quiet  smile, 

A  word  of  kindness  or  of  cheer, 

A  careful  thought  for  a  neighbor's  need, 

A  gentle  glance  or  a  kindly  deed, 

Though  the  heart  they  fall  on  be  dark  and  sear, 

The  cup  of  water  for  his  dear  sake, 


GROTON    MASSACRE.  305 

These  are  the  seeds  we  scatter  here; 

These  are  the  daily  blooms  that  make 

Our  earthly  life  so  strong  and  dear 

That  storm  and  tempest  we  need  not  fear. 

Not  to  every  soul  is  given 

To  do  some  great  thing  under  heaven. 

But  the  grass-blades  small  and  the  drops  of  dew 

Have  their  message  to  all  of  you. 

And  daily,  hourly,  loving  and  giving, 

In  the  poorest  life  make  heavenly  living. 


GROTON    MASSACRE. 

CENTENNIAL    POEM. 

LIBERTY  !  dream  of  man's  short  eager  day. 

Goddess !  who  on  the  distant  mountain  tops 

Out-shinest  dawn,  preluding  all  the  light. 

Vision  of  God  :  power  inaccessible  ; 

Calm  is  thy  brow  and  silent  are  thy  lips, 

Spotless  thy  garment,  and  thy  lifted  eyes 

See,  over  all  the  unequal  heights  of  time, 

A  coming  hour  of  glory  and  ofjtriumph. 

A  light  ineffable,  a  sacred  peace, 

When  God's  great  freedom  shall  possess  the  earth, 


306  POEMS. 

And  God's  frail  children  stand  erect  and  pure. 

Here  at  thy  feet,  through  all  the  flying  years, 

Dash  the  fierce  surges  of  the  world's  impatience; 

The  tidal  wave  of  agony  and  blood, 

The  flight  and  following  of  slave  and  tyrant, 

The  parted  sea,  the  shore  of  want  and  death, 

The  futile  struggle,  the  delayed  success, 

Loss,  terror,  anguish,  and  a  blank  despair, 

That  the  grave  heals,  the  dreamless  grave  alone. 

Yet,  Unattainable !  thou  smilest  on 

With  heaven's  high  peace  upon  thy  gracious  brow, 

Un-moved,  un-fearing,  eminent,  secure, 

The  promise  of  a  future  yet  too  far : 

Pledge  that  our  dream  is  true,  because  we  dream  it. 

Beholding  thee  aloft  in  stainless  splendor, 

We  dare  to  tell  what  men  have  borne  for  thee, 

What  blood  for  thee  was  spilt,  what  heroes  died, 

Before  the  teller  and  the  told  were  here. 

Yet  thou  wert  here :  thy  hand  the  strife  impelled, 

The  deadly  strife  that  saved  their  sacred  honor, 

Their  children  yet  to  come,  their  native  land ; 

And  made  their  memory  a  proud,  sad  story, 

For  us  to  treasure,  worship,  and  attain. 

Hark ! 

The  valley  slept  in  peace. 
Over  it  brooded  the  morning  star, 
Shining  soft  in  the  heavens  afar ; 
And  the  cornfields'  rich  increase, 
Waved  in  glittering  rustling  blades, 


GROTON    MASSACRE.  307 

The  dark  woods  murmured  in  their  glades 

With  the  murmur  of  the  dawn, 

And  the  breath  of  night  withdrawn, 

Dropping  dews  from  the  dripping  leaves, 

The  lapping  tide  on  the  beach  that  grieves, 

The  sudden  cry  of  a  waking  bird, 

The  rustle  and  hush  where  a  squirrel  stirred, 

The  salt  sea-breeze  and  the  forest's  balm, 

Sighing  softly  across  the  calm. 

Hark  !  on  the  startled  ear, 

A  sharp  short  note  of  fear : 

The  waker's  heart  stood  still, 

And  the  watcher,  with  a  thrill, 

Waited  to  hear, 

It  -was  not  the  war-whoop's  snarling  yell, 

Nor  the  sudden  throb  of  the  tocsin  bell. 

One  stroke,  —  but  one  : 

The  boom  of  a  gun  : 

Then,  quick  as  leaping  flame,  another 

Answered  the  other. 
"  Help  !"  they  said, 

In  tones  of  dread : 
"  The  fleet  of  the  foe 

Comes  in  below !" 

But  ere  the  signal  sound  had  rolled, 

Its  woful  warning  to  field  and  fold, 

Its  speech  had  a  ready  traitor  told ; 

And  another  roar 

From  the  further  shore 

Echoed  and  fell ; 


308  POEMS. 

And  still  another, 

Cain  to  his  brother, 

The  challenging  of  hell ! 

The  inland  forts  that  heard  the  sound 

Wandering  upward  and  around, 

Answered  not  to  the  wild  dismay, 

Of  the  startled  dwellers  by  the  bay : 

No  signal  this  that  called  for  aid,  — 

Their  crops  were  ripe  and  their  sheaves  un-made, 

And  none  to  succor  or  fight  went  down. 

But  all  about  the  harbor-town 

Well  they  knew  the  note  of  war, 

When  cannon  thundered  near  and  far, 

And  ships  rode  thick  by  the  light-house  bar. 

Women  started  from  their  sleep, 

Men  sprang  out  to  the  farm-house  door, 

Out  from  the  village  homes  they  pour, 

Up  to  the  hill-top,  down  to  the  shore. 

Hurrying  here,  and  hurrying  there, 

For  death  and  slaughter  are  in  the  air, 

And  no  man's  failing  heart  may  dare 

To  linger  behind  and  tend  the  sheep, 

Nor  any  woman  a  man  to  keep 

Back  from  battle  with  clinging  prayer. 

One,  across  the  din  and  scare, 

Shouts  to  her  husband  — 

"  Stop,  I  say  !" 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  from  the  way  ?" 
"Just  one  word,  then  follow  their  track, 
Don't  come  home  to  me  shot  in  the  back  /" 


UROTON    MASSACRE.  309 

Onward  the  ragged  regiment 
Like  an  angry  wave  of  the  harbor,  went, 
Bare  feet  bleeding,  breath  all  spent, 
But  a  fight  for  freedom  was  what  they  meant. 
And  now,  by  the  blaze  of  the  town  on  fire, 
By  the  black  smoke  rising  from  the  pyre 
Of  toil-worn  treasure  and  heart's  desire, 
By  thundering  cannon  and  savage  yell, 
The  country  side  knew  what  befel, 
The  town  and  fortresses  loved  so  well : 
And  women  and  children  fled  like  bees 
Before  the  howl  of  a  northern  breeze, 
Fled  away  from  their  burning  hives, 
Fled  for  their  babies'  precious  lives, 
While  in  the  fortress  on  the  hill, 
Fathers  and  husbands  with  right  good  will 
Fought  in  the  fury  of  despair ; 
Sons  and  brothers  with  panting  breath 
Side  by  side  rushed  on  to  death  : 
Boys  cheered  on  by  their  father's  shout, 
Pouring  their  fresh  young  life-blood  out, 
And  up  the  trampled  field  without 
With  flying  banners,  and  bayonet  set, 
With  drum,  and  trumpet,  and  waving  plume, 
Steadily  on  like  the  day  of  doom, 
Against  rude  bastion  and  parapet 
The  British  devils  their  onset  made, 
Ranks  of  traitor  and  renegade, 
Hireling  Hessian  and  English  serf, 
Surging  over  the  hill-side  turf, 


310  POEMS. 

Soon  with  their  hot  blood  to  be  wet, 
While  safe  and  high  on  Winthrop's  tomb 
Arnold  the  traitor,  cursed  of  man, 
Watched  how  the  cruel  strife  began, 
And  laughed  when  the  scarlet  river  ran, 
That  rose  in  the  hearts  of  friend  and  kin, 
But  drowned  his  soul  in  the  flood  of  sin. 
Over  against  him,  the  fort  within, 
LEDYARD  the  hero  held  his  men 
Up  to  their  work  with  a  grip  of  steel : 
His  land's  true  lover  for  woe  or  weal 
Unto  the  death  he  served  her  then. 

"  Honor  or  life  ?  then  honor  first," 
The  parting  word  from  his  lips  that  burst, 
When  the  cannon's  call  with  awful  stress 
Thundered  across  his  peaceful  waking: 
And  like  the  day  of  judgment  breaking 
Fire,  and  terror,  and  distress 
Leapt  from  the  bosom  of  the  night, 
And  filled  the  land  with  wild  affright. 
But  hands  were  few  if  hearts  were  strong, 
Strength  and  numbers  will  win  for  wrong, 
And  might  wreck  right  till  the  world  gives  out 
Storming  up  the  rough  redoubt, 
Over  the  bastion  with  yell  and  shout, 
Swept  the  line  of  the  conquering  foe, 
And  the  starry  flag  lay  trampled  low, 
Never  again  its  watch  to  keep. 
Murder  gleamed  in  the  leader's  face ; 

"  Who  is  commander  ?  yield  your  sword !" 


GROTON    MASSACRE.  31 1 

With  bending  head,  and  courteous  word, 

No  plea  for  quarter,  or  ruth,  or  grace, 

The  brave  man  offered  his  reddened  blade : 

But  one  quick  stroke  the  murderer  made 

Sure  and  sharp  through  that  noble  breast, 

And  the  hero's  spirit  was  at  rest :  — 

Life  for  honor !  he  loved  it  best. 

Now  with  an  angry  tiger's  leap, 

The  victors  sprang  on  their  helpless  prey ; 

Right  in  the  smiling  face  of  day 

Slaughter,  rapine,  and  fury  stood 

Deep  in  rivers  of  kindred  blood. 

Mercy,  pity,  honor  fled 

With  hidden  faces  before  their  tread  ; 

Shrieks,  and  groans,  and  mortal  cries 

Shuddered  up  to  the  placid  skies, 

And  the  living  held  their  breath, 

As  the  dying  prayed  for  death : 

And  the  dead  men  fell  away, 

Face  downward  to  the  clay, 

Oh  day  too  sad  and  long, 
Day  of  despair  and  wrong, 
Drunk  with  death's  purple  wine 
Poured  out  as  a  wasting  flood, 
Mad  with  the  draught  of  blood 
Were  hell's  insatiate  brood. 
The  living  and  dead  they  hewed 
With  pitiless  sword, 
And  taunting  word, 
With  scoff  and  sneer 


312  POEMS. 

In  the  dying  ear, 

Till  the  weary  day's  decline, 

Then  with  their  captives  and  their  spoil, 

With  drunken  laughter  and  loud  turmoil 

Down  to  the  blue  and  silent  bay, 

The  conquering  murderers  took  their  way, 

But  on  that  ghastly  hill, 

The  dead  lay  cold  and  still. 

Dead  !  dead !  but  yet  they  speak ;  oh  !  cruel  Mother, 

Calling  to  thee  with  lips  of  living  wrath, 
"  Cursed  be  he  who  slays  his  brother. 

Cursed  the  hand  that  points  his  path. 

Were  we  not  thine  ?  nursed  on  thy  knees  ? 

Cast  out  to  tempt  the  wintry  seas. 

Here  have  we  wrought  in  peace, 

Here  have  we  found  release. 

What  had  we  done  to  these  ? 

Mother !  Medea !  murderess !  we  are  thine." 

And  England's  haughty  heart, 

Hardened  in  strife  and  mart, 

Scorned  the  sad  cry. 

But  widowed  lives  and  souls  in  pain, 

Children  weeping  for  the  slain, 

Gathered  up  the  dread  refrain,  — 
"  Oh  cruel  Mother!  where  is  our  brother? 

Why  is  our  father  dead  upon  the  plain  ?" 

Alas  for  the  former  days. 

For  the  anger  and  the  woe 

That  vanished  long  ago, 

And  left  for  us  below 


GROTON    MASSACRE.  313 

Only  their  good  and  praise. 

Alas  for  the  Mother's  ways ! 

She  sowed  her  dragon's  teeth 

And  quick  up-sprung  the  spears, 

The  iron  spears  of  death, 

With  iron  hearts  beneath, 

And  the  war-storm's  angry  breath. 

But  these  with  blood  and  tears 

Watered  the  sod  for  years, 

And  the  beautiful  bloom  of  peace, 

The  corn  and  wine's  increase, 

Were  the  harvest  of  their  fears. 

Look  at  these  spires  and  towers ! 

These  goodly  fields  and  farms 

Where  never  shot  alarms  : 

At  the  merchant  and  the  mariner 

Whose  busy  toil  no  fear  can  stir, 

The  wide  blue  bay,  the  stately  ships, 

And  the  trailing  pennon  of  steam  that  slips 

In  and  out  by  the  winding  river : 

Look  at  the  thousand  smokes  that  quiver 

Up  from  this  lovely  land  of  ours, 

From  quiet  hearths  beside  whose  blaze 

Linger  long,  peaceful,  happy  days ; 

They  bought  them  with  their  lives, 

The  dead  who  lie  around 

This  consecrated  ground,  , 

In  these  their  life  survives. 

Give  them  their  meed  of  laud  and  tears. 

The  tribute  of  a  hundred  years. 


314  POEMS. 

And  this  is  history. 
An  echo  from  the  cry  of  man, 
Since  first  his  vibrant  voice  began 
To  stir  the  silent  vaults  of  air : 
Up-rising  here,  recurring  there, 
Through  time  and  space  forever  ringing, 
Across  the  gulf  of  centuries  springing, 
Humanity's  sad  tale  to  bear. 
In  every  tone  the  old  repeat,  — 
"  With  one  red  blood  all  true  hearts  beat. 
There  is  one  honor  and  one  faith, 
To  every  knightly  soul  one  breath, 
To  every  hero  one  great  death." 
It  tells  to-day  in  ardent  strain, 
Of  patriot  sires  who  fought  in  vain 
Here  on  this  green  and  fortressed  hill, 
And  re-repeats  the  story  still, 
Of  other,  later  knights,  who  stood 
Loyal  in  that  rebellious  flood 
When  Lincoln  called  for  men  i 
When  lonely  Sumter  lost  her  flag, 
And  not  one  true  man  dared  to  lag, 
But  like  the  lover  to  his  bride 
Sprang  forward  to  their  leader's  side. 
Bearded  the  panther  in  its  den, 
And  true  to  old  ancestral  pride, 
Even  as  their  fathers,  fought  and  died, 

For  sacred  Liberty. 
And  up  again  from  the  silent  dead 
Comes  Benedict  Arnold,  hand  and  head; 


GROTON    MASSACRE.  315 

Rebel  chieftain  to  plan  and  plot, 
Rude  assassin  with  pistol  shot; 
Traitor  here,  and  murderer  there ; 
Or  wily  schemer,  afraid  to  dare, 
But  quick  to  lay  his  poisonous  snare, 
And  fire  another,  vile  and  weak, 
To  act  the  treason  he  dare  not  speak : 
Deaf  to  the  Voice  which  still  and  low 
Whispers  a  word  of  dread  and  woe 
That  veils  the  eyes  of  the  seraphim  — 
"  Who  hateth  his  brother  murders  him." 
These  shall  a  smitten  country  send, 
Down  to  their  lives'  unblessed  end, 
Hand  in  hand  with  him  who  sold 
Their  country's  freedom  for  British  gold : 
And  ages  on  ages  yet  unborn, 
Point  to  their  names  with  curse  and  scorn, 
And  when  once  more  the  sword  of  strife 
Threatened  and  rent  our  country's  life, 
When  once  again  for  our  rights  we  bled, 
And  strewed  our  meadows  with  precious  dead, 
Again  the  heart  of  the  Mother-land 
Hardened  itself  against  our  woe, 
Held  to  greet  us  no  friendly  hand, 
Aided  and  comforted  our  foe. 
Unforgiving  and  haughty  still, 
To  the  child  that  thwarted  her  iron  will. 
When,  oh  when !  shall  the  echo  cease, 
And  the  severed  nations  be  bound  in  peace  ? 


316  POEMS. 

Rest  on  oh  heroes !  in  your  silent  slumber  : 
Hail  and  farewell,  ye  mighty  moveless  dead ! 
Long  as  her  centuries  earth  shall  know  and  number, 
Green  be  the  laurel  boughs  above  ye  spread. 

Your  course  is  sped ;  your  record  man  remembers, 
And  God's  own  hand  your  sacred  dust  shall  keep ; 
Though  all  the  flame  hath  left  those  mortal  embers, 
Upward  it  sprang,  with  bright,  immortal  leap. 

Sleep  in  your  country's  heart ;  forever  holy, 
Your  memory  shines  along  the  slopes  we  tread. 
Another  hundred  years  their  incense  lowly 
Ere  long  shall  o'er  your  sculptured  honors  shed. 

And  we  who  bring  you  grace  and  salutation, 
We  too  shall  sleep ;  and  nobler  tribes  of  men 
Shall  offer  here  the  homage  of  a  nation 
Rich  with  a  wisdom  far  beyond  our  ken. 

But  still,  as  years  return,  shall  man  returning 
Fight,  fall,  despair,  or  chant  the  conqueror's  psalm ; 
Still  the  same  light  in  patriot  hearts  be  burning, 
And  Heaven,  still  just,  bestow  the  martyr's  palm. 


BALLADS. 


BALLADS. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CHRISTOPHER  ASKE. 

(CATHOLIC  REBELLION  OF  1536.) 

COME  gentle  sweet  ladies,  with  kerchief  and  fan ; 
Come  lily-fair  maidens,  who  love  a  brave  man ; 
Come  all  ye  gay  gallants  from  wine-cup  and  flask, 
To  hear  my  good  ballad  of  Christopher  Aske. 

There  was  fighting  in  Lincoln  and  firing  in  Trent, 
The  bells  were  all  ringing,  the  bows  were  all  bent ; 
The  commons  had  risen  at  Catholic  call, 
And  the  Askes  left  their  hunting  at  Ellerkar  Hall. 

There  was  Robert  the  Rebel,  one  brother  of  three; 
They  nursed  at  one  bosom,  and  prayed  at  one  knee ; 
But  true  men  and  loyal  stood  two  against  one,  — 
Jolly  brave  Christopher,  sober-sides  John. 

Lord  Clifford  in  Skipton  lay  all  but  alone, 
For  Cumberland's  vassals  to  Robert  had  gone ; 
And  all  the  West  Riding  was  up  and  away, 
While  there  with  a  handful  Earl  Cumberland  lay. 


320  BALLADS. 

"  They  may  hew  us  in  gobbets,"  said  Christopher  then, 
"  They  '11  make  no  curst  rebels  of  Harry's  true  men! 
Come  saddle  and  bridle,  to  Skipton  with  speed, 
To  help  our  good  cousin  in  time  of  his  need !" 

Full  glad  was  Lord  Clifford  to  welcome  the  pair, 
Though  dark  was  his  look  as  they  mounted  the  stair. 
'•  Good  gentles  and  cousins,  ye  come  at  our  need, 
For  Skipton's  old  castle  is  empty  indeed ! 

"  My  wife  and  my  babies  to  Bolton  have  fled ; 
Would  God  they  had  tarried  by  board  and  by  bed ! 
And-Rosamond  Tempest,  and  Mary  Kildare, 
And  Isabel  Darcy  are  all  with  them  there. 

"  With  murder  and  outrage  the  rebels  have  sworn 
To  visit  my  darlings  ere  Friday  at  morn, 
If  we  hold  the  gates  fast  to  their  rascally  crew. 
And  the  Abbot  's  a  coward.    Friends,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

"  A  traitor  I  must  be  to  king  or  to  wife; 
My  heart  's  like  to  burst  in  the  terrible  strife,  — 
For  Clifford  and  traitor  were  never  at  one. 
Yet  if  Nell  and  the  babies  —  my  life  were  well  done !" 


Up  sprung  gallant  Christopher,  red  to  the  brow, 
He  had  sworn  to  proud  Rosamond  many  a  vow : 
Bide  here  in  your  castle,  and  Robert  defy ; 
I  '11  bring  back  the  women  and  children,  or  die  !" 


THE    BALLAD    OF    CHRISTOPHER    ASKE.  321 

The  darkness  of  midnight  hid  forest  and  fell, 
But  loud  through  the  tree-tops  whirled  roaring  and  yell, 
For  a  storm  was  abroad,  like  the  morning  of  doom, 
When  out  of  the  postern,  and  into  the  gloom, 

With  soft-pacing  horses  and  armor  of  black, 

By  many  a  by-path  and  intricate  track, 

Rode  the  vicar  of  Skipton,  Earl  Cumberland's  squire, 

And  Christopher  Aske,  with  his  eyes  like  a  fire. 

Proud  Rosamond  sat  by  the  casement  awake ; 
She  longed  and  she  sighed  for  the  daylight  to  break ; 
When  clear  in  the  darkness  a  signal  she  heard, — 
A  cry  that  came  never  from  beast  or  from  bird. 

It  was  Christopher's  call ;  to  the  wicket  she  crept. 
Full  soundly  the  Abbot  that  midnight  had  slept ; 
For  long  ere  the  dawning  came,  stormy  and  red, 
Far  over  the  moorland  his  guests  had  all  fled ! 

They  muffled  the  horse-hoofs  with  wrappings  of  silk, 
They  blackened  the  palfrey,  whose  coat  was  like  milk ; 
The  babies  were  Clifford's,  they  uttered  no  cry, 
And  scorned  the  brave  women  to  tremble  or  sigh. 

They  crept  in  the  heather  and  slid  through  the  trees, 
They  stalked  the  wild  rebels  like  deer  on  their  knees ; 
Like  a  vision  of  spirits,  so  silent  and  fleet, 
Save  the  throb  of  the  hearts  in  their  bosoms  that  beat. 


322  BALLADS. 

In  stillness  and  darkness  sped  maidens  and  men, 
But  the  dark  was  as  daylight  to  Christopher's  ken  ; 
As  sure  as  an  arrow,  as  true  as  a  hound, 
Through  the  host  of  the  rebels  a  pathway  he  found. 

At  the  dawning  of  day,  on  the  battlement  high, 
Those  women  and  children  the  rebels  did  spy ; 
They  raged  like  the  ocean  along  a  lee  shore, 
But  Clifford  laughed  softly  to  hear  the  wild  roar. 

"  We  're  safe  from  your  mercy,  good  rascals !"  quoth  he, 
"  But  a  shaft  might  still  find  us,  so  high  as  we  be. 

Go  down,  my  sweet  ladies,  and  rest  you  to-day ; 

I  think  our  brave  gallant  comes  hither  away !" 

And  there  on  the  dais,  in  midst  of  them  all, 
The  Rose  of  the  Tempests  stood  stately  and  tall ; 
And  Christopher,  stooping,  or  ever  she  wist, 
Before  all  the  maidens  her  red  lips  he  kissed. 

"  Fie !"  rustled  the  ladies ;  but  Rosamond  laughed : 
"  I  give  thee  good-will  to  the  cup  thou  hast  quaffed. 
Thou  hast  done  thy  devoir  like  a  courteous  knight, 
And  becomes  a  true  lady  to  give  thee  thy  right." 

Then  Christopher  louted  full  low  at  her  feet : 
"  I  could  go  to  the  death  for  a  guerdon  so  sweet ; 
But  the  poor  ride  to  Bolton, —  the  guiding  thee  back,  — 
'T  were  no  hazardous  deed  for  a  friar,  good  lack ! 


THE    BALLAD    OF    CHRISTOPHER    ASKE.  323 

"  'T  was  the  trick  of  a  coward  to  steal  through  the  moor ; 
Yet  we  were  but  three  men,  you  women  were  four 
It  was  terrible  odds  from  those  devils  to  ask, 
And  behooved  to  be  careful !"  quoth  Christopher  Aske. 

Yet  again  and  again  ere  the  rebels  had  fled, 
On  errand  as  valiant  had  Christopher  sped; 
Till  summer  came  smiling  with  blossoms  and  sun, 
And  England  had  rest,  for  the  wars  were  all  done. 

But  Nicholas  Tempest  hung  high  on  the  tree,  — 
And  kin  to  proud  Rosamond's  father  was  he ; 
And  Robert  the  rebel,  that  villainous  Aske, 
On  a  gallows  still  higher  had  ended  his  task. 

Yet  for  all  that  was  dead  and  for  all  that  was  gone, 
The  living  and  loyal  made  never  a  moan  ; 
At  the  bravest  of  weddings  did  Rosamond  ride, 
With  Christopher  Aske  on  his  charger  beside. 

A  mighty  carousal  saw  Skipton  that  day, 
With  lords  and  with  ladies  in  goodly  array. 
Their  souls  are  in  heaven  to-day,  we  do  trust, 
For  Christopher  Aske  and  his  comrades  are  dust. 

Give  a  smile  to  his  memory,  sweethearts,  I  pray ; 
Come  fill  him  a  bumper,  my  gallants  so  gay  ! 
Full  loath  do  I  finish  my  excellent  task, 
Such  a  jolly  brave  fellow  was  Christopher  Aske ! 


324 


THE    GUERZ    OF    GENOSSA. 

(AFTER  THE  BRETON.) 

SOLE  and  lonely  lived  the  maid 
Unattended,  unafraid, 
Good  nor  evil  there  she  knew 
Only  clouds,  or  winds  that  blew 
Wiling  to  her  silken  snare 
Little  birds  that  sung  in  air, 
Laughing  low  their  joy  to  see 
When  her  fingers  set  them  free, 
Idly  with  the  lambs  she  played 
Or  beside  the  Laber  strayed, 
Like  its  waves  her  childhood  ran 
Knowing  naught  of  God  or  man. 
Past  nor  future  dared  to  stir 
In  her  heart  a  sweet  demur, 
Past  or  future  she  had  none, 
There  she  lived  from  sun  to  sun, 
Lonely  daughter  of  a  king 
Into  woman  blossoming, 

Oh  Genossa! 

On  a  heifer  white  and  bold, 
Gay  with  shining  horns  of  gold, 


THE    GUERZ    OF    GENOSSA.  325 

Through  the  forest  ways  she  rode. 
Down  its  neck  her  tresses  flowed 
Black  as  coils  of  glittering  jet, 
And  her  soft  eyes,  darker  yet, 
Shone  amid  the  cloudy  hair 
Blowing  round  her  forehead  fair. 
Red  as  blood  her  mantle  rolled 
To  the  greensward,  fold  on  fold, 
On  her  brow  for  diadem 
Sparkled  neither  gold  or  gem, 
But  a  blood-red  wreath  of  bloom, 
Roses  in  her  ringlets'  gloom, 
Fair  she  rode  beneath  the  trees 
As  a  dream  the  sleeper  sees. 

Oh  Genossa! 

Suddenly,  one  morn  of  May, 
Wondrous  visions  barred  her  way ; 
Lo !    a  swart  and  glossy  bull, 
Short  of  horn,  with  forehead  full, 
Wrinkled  front,  and  eye  of  flame, 
Toward  her  like  a  tempest  came; 
But  across  the  level  path, 
Pawing  in  restraint  and  wrath, 
Curving  neck  and  bristled  mane, 
Show  the  check  of  curb  and  rein; 
Swift  she  sees  a  splendid  gleam, 
Gilded  armor,  blue  eyes'  beam, 
Haughty  visage  bended  low, 
Helmet  set  on  brow  of  snow ; 


326  BALLADS. 

Ah !    her  heart  is  half  afraid, 
Fear  assails  the  fearless  maid. 

Oh  Genossa! 

Softer  than  a  south- wind's  sigh, 
Gentler  than  a  wood-dove's  cry, 
Sweeter  than  the  cherubim 
Quiring  loud  their  angel  hymn, 
Falls  the  voice  those  proud  lips  parting; 
Into  soul  and  spirit  darting 
Wilder  thrills  than  death  could  give, 
Thrills  that  bid  the  woman  live. 
Never-more,  ah  never  more, 
Shall  she  stray  by  wood  or  shore, 
Dreamless,  aimless,  tranquil,  calm, 
Stately  as  a  tropic  palm, 
Undisturbed  by  hope  or  prayer, 
Innocent  as  bird  in  air. 
Peace  hath  left  her  maiden  bosom, 
For  the  bee  hath  found  the  blossom. 

Oh  Genossa! 

Day  by  day,  and  day  by  day 
In  the  fragrant  woodland  way 
Met  the  damsel  and  the  stranger, 
Thoughtless  she  of  harm  or  danger, 
Sunshine  brimmed  the  tender  sky, 
All  the  birds  sung  joyously, 
Languid  odors  filled  the  air, 
Summer  brooded  everywhere, 


THE    GUERZ    OF    GENOSSA.  327 

And  the  hoof-beats  as  they  rode 
Like  a  rhythmic  legend  flowed. 
'  Love  is  sweet,  love  is  sweet, 
Sweeter,  sweetest ; '  beat  on  beat. 
Ever  to  the  throbbing  rhyme 
All  her  pulses  keeping  time 
Rapture  drowning  soul  and  sense, 
Bliss  beyond  all  innocence, 
Till,  alas !    one  dewy  day 
On  the  bull  she  rode  away, 
And  the  heifer  homeward  strayed, 
Lowing  loudly  for  the  maid. 

Oh  Genossa! 

All  in  vain  her  kin  pursue; 
Swifter  yet  the  black  bull  flew, 
Vainly  on  the  gray  sea-sands 
Rozan's  monarch  wrings  his  hands, 
Dashing  through  the  wild  blue  water 
Vanisheth  his  spell-bound  daughter. 
Silver  horns  and  bloodshot  eyes 
O'er  the  dancing  billows  rise, 
And  the  black  bull's  hide  of  jet 
With  the  ocean's  spray  is  wet. 
But  Genossa  closely  clings 
And  the  knight  about  her  flings 
Closer  still  his  stalwart  arm ; 
Yet  he  holds  with  deeper  charm. 
Thought  of  dread  nor  dream  of  harm 
Doth  her  maiden  soul  alarm, 


BALLADS. 

Strength  nor  fear  the  work  had  done, 
Love  hath  conquered  !    love  hath  won  ! 

Ah  Genossa ! 

Now  in  Morgane's  fairy  cave 
Safe  they  hear  the  foemen  rave, 
High  above  the  pale  rocks  glow 
Bluer  than  the  sea  below, 
Azure,  azure  everywhere. 
Like  the  vaults  of  upper  air. 
And  beneath  the  azure  sea 
Laps  the  walls  eternally. 
Loud  she  cried  in  sudden  woe, 
"  Hark  !    my  mother  calls  below, 
From  the  narrow  house  of  wood 
Where  she  sleeps  in  solitude. 

"  Tis  but  waves  whose  lifting  shock 
Sobs  within  the  rifted  rock." 

"  Listen,  Spountus  !    Hark  !  she  speaks." 
"What  vain  word  the  death-sleep  breaks?" 

"  Daughter !    give  not  flesh  and  soul 
Lawless,  unto  man's  control, 
Let  the  priest  with  book  and  bell 
Marry  thee,  if  all  be  well." 

"So,  sweet,  shall  the  rite  be  sped 
Honored  be  the  holy  dead." 


THE    GUERZ    OF    GENOSSA.  329 

Suddenly  a  little  isle, 

From  the  darkness  seemed  to  smile, 

Blazing  tapers,  altar  high 

Rich  with  scarlet  blazonry, 

Mitred  priest,  and  choristers 

With  whose  chant  the  blue  air  stirs. 

Knight  and  maiden  hand  in  hand 

Swiftly  at  the  altar  stand, 

And  her  finger  offering 

To  the  priest,  she  wears  the  ring. 

Ring  of  fire !  in  agony 

Through  the  cavern  peals  a  cry  : 

White  and  wild  she  turns  to  fly. 

And  a  voice  laughs  scornfully 

Ah  Genossa! 

On  and  on  like  dreams  of  ill, 
Ever  down  an  endless  hill. 
Fainting  heart  and  stumbling  feet, 
Hurried  bride,  and  bridegroom  fleet, 
Onward,  downward,  still  they  go, 
Heralded  by  shrieks  of  woe. 

"  Hist !    I  hear  both  wail  and  weeping !" 
"Tis  the  miners,  night-shift  keeping." 

"  Spountus !    down  the  rock  appears, 
Drop  on  drop,  like  streaming  tears." 

"  Tis  the  springs  of  earth,  my  bride, 
Down  the  dripping  stones  they  glide." 


330  BALLADS. 

"Ah  my  lord!    my  love,  my  soul, 
How  the  air  burns !    like  a  coal." 

"  Aye,  the  fires  are  rising  fast. 
Fires  that  heat  the  whirling  blast, 
Godless  maiden !    life  is  past. 
Earth  for  thee  no  more  shall  shine, 
Heaven  withdraws  its  gleam  divine, 
This  is  Hell!  —  and  thou  art  mine. 

Lost  Genossa !" 


ROSALIND! 


HIGH  on  the  hills  Lord   Heron  he  dwells, 
Rosalind  sings  on  the  moors  below, 

Faint  as  the  sea  in  its  singing  shells, 
Up  to  the  castle  her  soft  notes  go. 

Young  Lord   Heron  has  left  his  state, 
Donned   a  doublet  of  hodden-gray; 

Stolen  out  at  the  postern-gate, 

A  silly  shepherd,   to  wander  away. 


ROSALIND  !  331 

Rosalind  keeps  the  heart  of  a  child, 
Tender  and  gentle  and  true  is  she; 

Colin  the  shepherd  is  comely  and  mild, 
Tending  his  flocks  by  valley  and  lea. 

Never  shepherd  has  whispered  before 

Words  she  hears  at  the  close  of  day :  — 
"  Rose  of  roses,   I  love  thee  more  — 

More  than  the  tenderest  words  can  say. 

"Though   I   seem  but  a  shepherd  lad, 
Down  from   a  stately  race   I   came; 
In  silks  and  jewels   I'll  have  thee  clad, 
And  Lady  of  Heron   shall  be  thy  name." 

Rosalind  blushed  a  rosy  red, 

Turned  as  pale  as  the  hawthorns  blow, 
Folded  her  kirtle  over  her  head, 

And  sped  away  like   a  startled  doe. 

"  Rose  of  roses,  come  back  to  me ! 

Leave  me  never!"   Lord   Heron  cried, — 
"  Never !"   echoed  from  hill  and  lea, 
"  Never !"  the  lonely  cliffs  replied. 

Loud  he  mourned  a  year  and  a  day, 
But  Lady  Alice  was  fair  to  see; 

The  bright  sun  blesses  his  bridal  day, 
And  the  castle-bells  ring  merrily. 


332  BALLADS. 

Over  the  moors,  like  a  rolling  knell, 
Rosalind  hears  them  slowly   peal; 

Low  she  mourned  —  "I  loved  him  well, — 
Better  I  loved  his  mortal  weal. 

"  Rest,  Lord  Heron,  in  Alice's  arms, 

She  is  a  lady  of  high  degree; 
Rosalind  had  but  a  peasant's  charms, 
Ye  had  rued  the  day  ye  wedded  me!" 

Lord  Heron  he  dwells  in  the  castle  high, 
Rosalind  sleeps  on  the  moors  below. 

He  loved,  to  live;    and  she  loved,  to  die; 
Which  loved  truest,  the  angels  know! 


333 


THE    NIS. 

"  See,  idug  fly  tier  vi." 

THERE  was  a  man  in   Funen, 

A  weary  man    was  he, 
For  all  his  huddled  sheepfold, 

His  children  fair  to  see  : 

For  all  his  swine  and  cattle, 
For  all  his  cocks  and  hens, 

His  good  wife  and  his  casks  of  beer, 
A  weary   man  was   Lenz. 

For  a  little   Nis  from  Elfland 
Had  come  with   Lenz  to   dwell, 

And  nobody  could  fright  him 
With  cursing  or  with   spell. 

He  danced  about  the  cellar, 
And  twirled  the  spigots  round; 

The  delft-ware   in  the  cupboard 
He  clattered  to   the  ground; 


334  BALLADS. 

He  put  the  cat  on  horseback; 

He  broke  the  spindle  twine; 
He  burnt  the  porridge  in  the  pot; 

And  spilled  the  flask  of  wine; 

He  nipped  and  bobbed   the  children, 
Till  sore  and  loud  they  squealed ; 

He  vexed  the  serving  maidens, 
And  plagued  the  men  a-field. 

Till  Lenz,  who  lived  in   Funen, 
By  Thor  and   Freya  swore 

He'd  move  to   Copenhagen, 
Where  once  he  lived  before. 

So,  bag  and  baggage  mustered, 
They  took  their  sea-ward  way, 

To  sail  for  Copenhagen, 
One  pleasant  summer  day. 

And  Lenz,  he  drove   the  good  wife, 
The  cart  was  sure  and   slow, 

Well  loaded  up  with  bed  and  cup, 
The  churn  it  swung  below. 

And  on  the  road  they  met  a  man. 
"  Where  do  ye  go  ?"  says  he. 
"We're  off  for  Copenhagen, 
A-sailing  on  the  sea." 


THE    NIS.  335 

Out  of  the  churn   below  them 
There   came   a  little  squall  : 
"Aye!    off  for   Copenhagen, 

Good  wife,   and  me,   and   all !" 

"Now  by   the  beard  of  Odin!"     • 

With  face  as  red  as  blood, 
Swore  mightily  the  baffled   Lenz, 
"  We  will  not  stir  a  rood ! 

"  If  Master  Nis  goes  with  us, 

A  foot  we  will  not  go !" 
Then  men  and  maids,  and  beasts  and  wains 
Turned  backward,   vexed  and  slow. 

t 
O   Lenz !    poor  Lenz  of  Funen ! 

You're  not  the  last  to  find 
That  wander  wide  worlds  over 
No   trouble  stays  behind! 

The  vexed  and  weary  spirit 

May   count   to-day   on   this : 
Go  far  and  near,   go  there  or  here, 

Beside  it  rides  the   Nis! 


336 


BASILE    RENAUD. 


THE  summer  sun  bedecks  Anjou, 
The  harvest  time  keeps  promise  true, 
And  I  have  kept  my  faith  with  you 

Basile  Renaud ! 

The  sun  forsakes  my  dungeon  walls, 
Across  the  fosse  no  shadow  falls, 
I  hear  no  answer  to  my  calls, 

Basile  Renaud ! 

My  name   was  Clara  Madaillon. 

I  had  a  sister,  I  had  one 

Who  should  have  been  a  hooded  nun, 

That  made  us  three  : 
Marie  and  I  dwelt  in  the  tower, 
But  Angelique  forsook  her  dower, 
And  in  a  convent  made  her  bower, 

The  convent  of  St.  Brie. 

There  came  a  lover  to  our  lands, 
I  wove  my  hair  in  shining  bands 
And  put  bright  jewels  on  my  hands, 

Basile  Renaud ! 

You  looked  at  me  as  at  a  star, 
You  said  I  was  as  cold  and  far, 


BASILE    RENAUD. 


337 


I  laugh  now,  thinking  what  you  are, 
Basile  Renaud  ! 

He  gave  me  a  betrothal  ring, 
I  learned  for  him  to  smile  and  sing; 
5<  Proud  Clara,  have  you  found  your  king  ?" 

They  said  to  me. 
So  from  the  nuns  came  Angelique 
For  her  farewells ;    oh  !    she  was  meek, 
With  yellow  tresses  down  her  cheek, 

And  blue  eyes  soft  to  see ! 

My  love  beheld  her  tender  face, 
Her  little  hands  and  gentle  grace, — 
How  dared  you  give  her  my  right  place, 

Basile   Renaud  ? 
I  scoffed  at  her,  I  hated  him ; 
And  Marie  said  —  "His  eyes  are  dim; 
Were't  me  —  "    So  ran  thy  requiem, 

Basile  Renaud  ! 


We  took  our  counsel,  nor  would  show 
More  signs  of  vengeance  than  the  snow 
That  hides  a  traveller  far  below 

Its   shining  drift. 

The  winter  nights  came  on  too  fast, 
But  they  two  did  not  hear  the  blast 
That  howled,  and  howled,  and  shivered  past, 

And   muttered  in  the  rift. 


338  BALLADS. 

One  night  we  were  both  grave  and  gay, 

For  Angelique  had  gone  away, 

And  one  was  sad,  but  two  would  play, 

Basile  Renaud. 

The  firelight  flickered  in  the  hall, 
The  sconces  burned  with  torches  tall; 
I,  blinded,  hunted  to  the  wall 

Basile  Renaud. 

"Will  you  be  hunter?"   Marie  said; 
She  tied  the  kerchief  round  his  head; 
I  had  a  knife  —  and  it  grew  red  — 

But  not  with  flame. 
His  brow  bent  down  upon  my  arm. 
I  laughed  to  see  the  working  charm. 
He  had  no  will  to  do  us  harm, 

Nor  breath  to  murmur  blame. 

They  haled  us  to  a  prison  high, 
Where  all  day  long  thick  shadows  lie, 
And  in  broad  daylight  we  shall  die, 

Basile  Renaud ! 

But  I  had  vengeance !    though  there  be 
Only  one  sister  left  of  three  — 
Angelique  in  the  nunnery  — 

Basile  Renaud! 


339 


THE   DEATH    OF   TANKERFIELD. 


THE  death  of  holy  Tankerfield, 

That  martyr  of  the   Lord's, 
And  his  great  worth   I   do  set  forth 

As  seasonable  words. 

In  young  King  Edward's  blessed  time, 

A  Papist  vile  was  he; 
Uncleansed  from  the  filthy  slime 

Of  vain  idolatry. 

But  when  it  pleased  the  Lord  most  high 

To  take  the  king  away, 
Unto  his  everlasting  rest, 

To  be  with  him  alway,  — 

When  bloody   Mary's  reign  began, 

Wherein  the  flock  of  Christ 
Did  wander  through  the  valleys  low, 

And  stumble  in   the  mist,  — 

Then,  as  he  saw  what  cruel  pains 

From  men  they  did  endure, 
And  suffered  pangs  of  many  deaths 

To  make  their  glory  sure  — 


34-O  BALLADS. 

His  heart  was  moved  and  stirred  within 

To  see  their  evil  tide, 
And  that  foul  church  which  wrought  the  sin 

He  might  no  more  abide. 

But  turned  unto  the  sacred  Word, 

To  light  his  darksome  soul; 
And  learned  to  leave  that  faith  abhorred 

That   would  his  mind  control. 

And  did  his  feeble  voice  uplift 

To  make  a  protest  bold,  — 
Renouncing  all  the  devil's  works, 

To  which  he  clave  of  old. 

Thereat  unto  his  house  there  came 

A  man  of  cruel  mind, 
By  name  one  Byrd,  who  thought  no  shame 

This  godly  youth  to  bind. 

Before  the  judge  they  haled  him  then, 

Who  sent  him  back  apace, 
Unto  a  doleful  prison-cell, 

Where  he  remained  a  space. 

But  when  before  the  court  he  came, 

To  answer  for  his  faith, 
Of  Christ  the   Lord  he  was  not  shamed, 

But  owned  him   unto  death. 


THE    DEATH    OF    TANKKRFIELD.  34! 

So,  when  the  summer-tide  was  come, 

And  all  the  fields  were  green, 
And  flowers  upon  the  dewy   meads 

Were  joyful  to  be  seen, 

They  brought  him  from  his  dungeon-cell 

Unto  a  certain   Inn, 
And  bade  him  to  remember  well 

The  wages  of  his  sm. 

For  that  he  never  more  should  see 

The  rising  of  the  sun. 
""  Then,"   with  a  cheerful  voice,   quoth  he, 
"  Good  Lord,  thy   will  be  done ! 

"  Now,  bring  me  here  a  cup  of  wine, 

Withal  a  wh  eaten  cake, 
To  keep  the  Supper  of  the   Lord, 
Ere  I   my  end  do  make. 

"  I  may  not  have  a  minister 

To  break  this  bread  to  me, 
But  by  thy  passion,   gracious   Lord, 
Lay  not  the  sin   to  me! 

"  I  fain  would  keep  thy  feast  again 

Before  I   drink  it  new, 
To  aid  my  flesh  in  deathly  pain, 
And  keep  my   spirit  true." 


342  BALLADS. 

So,   giving  thanks,  he  took  the  bread, 

And  drank  the   sacred   wine, 
Which  now  in  heaven  he  doth  partake 

From  chalices  divine. 

Then   prayed  he  them   to  light  a  fire, 
That  he  his  strength  might  try ; 

The  host  did  grant  him  his   desire, 
And  stood   amazed  by : 

For,  lo !    he  stretched  his  naked  foot 

Into  the  scorching  flame, 
But  bone  and  sinew  quivering  shrank, 

And  loud  he  spake  in  pain  :  — 

"  Ho,  flesh !    thou  wilt  not  gladly  burn, 

But  spirit  shall  endure ; 
Ho,   sense !    thou  wouldst  from  glory  turn, 
But  soul   thou  shalt  make  sure!" 

Then,   as  the  time  drew  on  apace 

That  he  by  fire  should  die, 
He  kneeled  again  and  prayed  for  grace 

To  bear  his  agony. 

Then,   with  a  calm  and  pleasant  smile, 

Saith   he,  —  "  However  long 
The  day  may  seem,   yet   at  the  last 

It   rings  for  even-song." 


THE    DEATH    OF    TANKERFIELD.  343 

The   sheriffs  brought  him  to  a  green, 

Hard  by  the  abbey-wall, 
And  seeing  there  the  fagots  piled, 

They  spake  aloud  to  all. 

"A  dinner  sharp  is  mine  to-day," 

Quoth   he,   with  joyful   faith, 
"  But   I   shall   sup   on   heavenly  cates, 

And  triumph  over  death." 

When  he  was  fettered  to   the  stake, 
They  heaped  the  pile  full  high, 

And  called  a  priest,  with  subtle  words 
To   shake  his  constancy. 

But  loudly  he  denied  the  mass 

And   all  the  works  of  Rome, 
So   might  not   Babylonish  tricks 

Delay  his  passage  home. 

A  certain  knight,  who  stood  thereby, 

Laid  hold  upon  his  hand. 
Quoth  he,   "  Good  brother  in  the   Lord, 

Be  strong  in   Christ,   and  stand." 

"  Oh,   sir !"   the  martyr  made  reply, 
"  I   give   you  thanks  indeed. 
May   God  be  lauded,   I   am   strong !" 
With  that  they  bade  him  heed. 


344  BALLADS. 

And  set  the  fire  unto  the  pile : 
When,   as  the  flame   shot  high, 

Unto  the  strong   and  mighty   One 
He  powerfully    did  cry. 

Yea,    from   the   depths    uplifted    he 
A   cry   for   help   to    God, 

And  homeward    then,    on    fiery    wings, 
Right  joyfully    he   rode. 


G  E  N  E  V  I  E  V  E  . 

A     LEGEND    OF    THE     MORVAN. 

GENEVIEVE   the    Nivernaise 
Fell   upon   her   evil   days : 
Seven    children    to   be   fed, 
Only    two   to   find    them    bread. 
Sometimes   in    her   heart   she   said, 
"  Would   that    I    had    never   wed ; 
Would  that  some  of  these  were  dead !" 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve  ! 


GENEV1EVE. 

Wearily    the   days   went   by. 
Drooping   head   and   languid    eye, 
Crying   babes    and   hungry   sire, 
Meagre   food   and   scanty   fire  — 
Life   was   torment   drear   and   dire; 
Riches    were   her   heart's    desire. 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve  ! 

Fete-Dieu   dawned   serene   and    still. 
Forth    she   wandered   to   the   hill  — 
Wandered   up    the    Fairy    Way, 
Carrying   baby    Desiree. 
In   the    village   church    to-day 
All    the   rest   have    gone   to   pray  ; 
Blessed   words   she   could   not   say. 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve  ! 

Pink    and   sweet    the   roses    wave, 
Wreathed   above   the    Fairy    Cave. 
^Tis   to-day   the   fated    hour 
Fairy    fetters   lose    their   power. 
Open    door   and    haunted   bower 
Tempt   her   in    to    seek   their   dower 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve  ! 

From   her   arms    the   child   she   set 
On   a   table   carved   of  jet, 
With   an    apple   in    her   hold; 
For  the  floor  was  strewed  with  gold 
Gold    and    gems   of  price    untold, 


346  BALLADS. 

Gems   and  jewels   manifold, 
At   her   feet   like   pebbles   rolled. 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 

Suddenly    she   heard   a   knell. 
Could   it   be   the    compline   bell  ? 
Ah !    if  once   those   rites    were    o'er, 
Fairy    spells   would   close   the   door; 
She    should   never   find   it   more. 
Out    she   rushed    with   all    her   store. 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 

Loud   the   bell   for   complines   rung; 
Loud    the   doors   together   swung. 
"Ah,   my   baby!    left    behind!" 
Nothing    answered   but   the   wind. 
Key   nor   latchet   could   she   find: 
Then    what   anguish    tore   her   mind  I 
Loud   she   raved   at   fate   unkind 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 

From   her   garments'    weighted   fold 
Down   she   scattered    gems   and   gold. 
"Oh,    the   little   baby    face! 
Oh,   the   tender  baby   grace! 
Evil   soul,    distract   and   base : 
Worthless  jewels   in    her   place!" 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 

Sore   she    wept    and   loud    did   pray, 
Till    the    priest    came    up    that    way. 


GENEVIEVE.  347 

*s  Father !    father !    pray   for  me ; 
Bid   the   saints   look   down   to    see 
All   my   dreadful   misery; 
Curst   my   wish   comes   back   to   me. 
Cry   for   help,   if  help   there   be!" 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 

"  Mary,  Mother,  help !"  he  said ; 
"  Give  thee  both  thy  babe  and  bread. 

Seek   the   treasure   night   and   day. 

When   thou   findest   waif  and   stray, 

In  the   cave   thy   burden   lay  : 

So  thy  curse  shall  pass  away." 
Genevieve !  oh,  Genevieve ! 

Moonlit   midnight,   noon   and   morn 
Saw   her   at   her   search    forlorn : 
On   her  knees   in   patient   pain, 
Through  the  forest,  brake,  and  plain, 
Now   in   snow,    and   now   in   rain  — 
Never   did   she   seek   in   vain ; 
All   at   length   she   found   again. 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 

Now  the  Fete-Dieu  comes  once  more, 
And   beside   the   cavern    door 
With   the   treasure   doth   she   wait, 
As   a   soul   at   heaven's    dear   gate, 
Meek,   repentant,    desolate ; 
But   one   gift   she   asks    of  fate. 
Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 


34-8  BALLADS. 

Suddenly   the   doors   unclose. 
Blooming   like   a   tiny   rose, 
As   the   year   were   but   a    day, 
On   the   table    Desiree 
With   her  apple   sits   at   play. 
Ah !    who    tears   the   child   away ! 
Flings   the    treasure   where   it   lay, 
With   but   one    wild   word   to   say- 
"  Desiree  !    my    Desiree  !" 

Genevieve !    oh,    Genevieve ! 


PENNA'S   DAUGHTER. 

A    CORNISH    LEGEND. 

I  TOOK  my  baby  to  the  sands, 
Undid  her  coats  and  swaddling  bands; 
I  held  her  tight  in  tender  hands 

And  dipped  her  in  the  sea: 
Ah  me !    how  pink  her  fair  face  showed ! 
Her  ivory  body  blushed  and  glowed, 
Her  dimpled  legs  my  arm  bestrode, 

She  screamed  with  baby  glee. 


PENNA'S  DAUGHTER.  349 

That  summer  sea,  how  soft  it  laves 
The  long  and  lonely  shore  of  graves ! 
Her  eyes  were  bluer  than  its  waves, 

Her  yellow  curls  flew  free. 
I  looked  at  her  with  lips  apart, 
I  kissed  her  with  a  hungry  heart ; 
Out  of  my  arms  with  sudden  dart 

She  leapt  into  the  sea. 

My  voice  died  out,  I  could  not  shriek, 
My  helpless  hands  hung  cold  and  weak; 
Before  my  stiffened  lips  could  speak 

The  child  came  back  to  me! 
Like  any  dancing  spray  of  foam 
That  on  the  billows  loves  to  roam, 
She  floated  back  to  me  and  home, 

This  baby  of  the  sea. 

Oh  is  she  mine,  or  is  she  thine  ? 
The  lapping  water  made  no  sign. 
She  grew  like  rose-trees  straight  and  fine, 

This  creature  from  the  sea. 
Her  hair  was  gay  as  golden  thread  ; 
From  off  her  fair  and  haughty  head, 
Down  to  the  ground  it  waved  and  spread, 

As  bright  as   sunbeams  be. 

She  grew  to  be  a  dainty  maid, 
But  never  in  the  church  she  prayed, 
And  never  in  her  home  she  stayed, 
To  rock  the  babes  for  me. 


35°  BALLADS. 

But  night  and  day,  and  day  and  night, 
When  morn  was  red  or  stars  were  bright, 
She  strayed  beside  her  sole  delight, 
The  moaning,  glittering  sea. 

Sometimes  she  smiled,  sometimes  she  sung; 
No  laugh  went  rippling  from  her  tongue ; 
As  light  from  stone  to  stone  she  sprung 

As  plovers  flit  and  flee ; 
Or  on  a  rock,  with  hair  outspread 
And  lips  like  coral  wet  and  red, 
She  bent  to  see  her  shining  head 

Glassed  in  the  shining  sea. 

Alas !    alas !    the  day  is  long, 

But  dew-fall  brings  to  even- song. 

The  squire's  young  heir  was  tall  and  strong, 

And  well  he  loved  the  sea. 
You  saw  his  pinnace,  when  the  gale 
Went  howling  by  through  shroud  and  sail, 
Fly  o'er  the  billows  fiery  pale, 

As  over  blooms  the  bee. 

Where  wild  and  white  the  breakers  pour, 
His  cheery  shout  above  the  roar 
Came  ringing  to  the  frighted  shore 

Like  bells  across  the  lea. 
He  saw  my  lass  upon  the  beach, 
He  made  good  speed  her  side  to  reach, 
He  wiled  her  well  with   guileful  speech, 

He  whispered  like  the  sea. 


PENNA  S    DAUGHTER.  351 

Oh  saddest  heart !    oh  tale  to  tell ! 
My  gold  and  milk-white  lily-bell, 
Before  the  blast  it  bowed  and  fell, 

It  fell  and  died  by  me. 
Her  father's  heart  was  hard  and  old, 
Her  lover's  lips  were  sneering  cold ; 
I  wrapped  her  shroud  in  fold  on  fold 

And  laid  her  by  the  sea. 

Oh  was  she  mine,  or  was  she  thine  ? 

The  awful  water  gave  no  sign. 

I  kissed  the  clay,  my  love  was  mine; 

The  child  was  child  to  me. 
And  he  who  killed  her  sailed  away  ; 
He  stayed  a  year,  he  stayed  a  day,  — 
From  God  he  could  no  longer  stay, 

Nor  from  the  hungry  sea. 

The  revel  lights  had  long  been  out, 
The  revel  songsters  ceased  to  shout; 
He  lost  his  path,  he  strayed  about, 

And  on  the  rock  sat  she. 
Her  long  hair  in  the  moonlight  shone, 
She  called  to  him  with  piteous  moan, 
"  Ah  love  !    my  love  !    I  weep  alone. 

Come  down  beside  the  sea." 

She  clasped  him  close,  she  clasped  him  tight, 
She  wrapped  him  in  her  tresses  bright : 
"  My  breast  shall  be  thy  bed  to-night, 
Thy  curfew-bell  the  sea. 


352  BALLADS. 

If  Penna's  daughter  drooped  and  died, 
Her  tale  is  told ;    behold  thy  bride." 
She  clasped  him  to  her  icy  side, 
Nor  sign  nor  sound  made  he. 

When  clouded  red  with  blood  and  flame 

The  dawning  day  in  tempest  came, 

In  vain  they  called  Lord  Walter's  name ; 

From  tower  nor  town  came  he : 
At  night  he  tossed,  a  broken  thing, 
Flapped  by  the  screaming  sea-bird's  wing, 
Where  sullen  waters  heave  and  swing, 

Cast  from  the  scornful  sea. 


THE    LADY'S    GHOST. 


THE  sweetest  lady  in  the  land 
She  sailed  away  from  Britain's  isle, 
And  kissed  and  waved  her  lily  hand, 
And  sent  across  the  waves  a  smile. 

Ah  woe  is  me !  to  sail  the  sea 
This  lovely  dame  was  borne  away, 
With  pipers  piping  merrily, 
And  silken  pennons  floating  gay. 


THE  LADY'S  GHOST.  353 

The  wind  blew  high,  the  wind  blew  low 
It  lashed  the  sea  to  many  a  wave ; 
But  fast  of  flight,  a  deadlier  foe, 
Before  the  howling  tempest  clrave. 

A  day  and  year,  yet  there  nor  here 
The  Dian  touched  at  pier  or  shore, 
No  tidings  came  of  hope  nor  fear, 
Alas !  that  lady  came  no  more. 

"  Arise  !  arise  !  my  brother's  son 
Go  forth  and  search  by  sea  and  land, 
My  heart  is  dead  my  life  is  done 
Unless  I  touch  my  lady's  hand. 

"  Ah  woe  is  me !  how  sweet  to  see 
She  waved  to  me  her  fond  farewells ; 
Her  bride-ring  glittered  fair  and  free, 
Her  voice  rang  out  like  wedding-bells. 

"  Oh  dreadful  doom  !  oh  woeful  fate ! 
Oh  cruel  wreck  of  wounds  and  war ! 
That  here  I  lie  all  desolate, 
While  she  is  tossed  on  seas  afar. 

"  Go  forth,  my  brother's  sturdy  sen  ! 
Go  take  my  ship  beside  the  pier, 
Take  knights  and  sailors  many  a  one, 
And  fetch  my  lovely  lady  here." 

23 


BALLADS. 

The  wind  blew  low,  the  wind  blew  high, 
When  young  Sir  Roger  sailed  the  sea 
A  whirling  tempest  blurred  the  sky 
And  fast  the  gallant  ship  did  flee. 

On  Sable's  isle  the  breakers  pile, 
They  heap  and  fall  and  rave  amain 
The  ship  that  sailed  a  thousand  mile 
Shall  never  sail  a  rood  again. 

The  valiant  knights,  the  goodly  crew, 
Lie  deep  asleep  'neath  ocean's  roar : 
But  one  alone  the  billows  threw 
A  living  man,  along  the  shore. 

He  dragged  him  to  a  lonesome  hut 
A  weary  wight,  to  pray  for  sleep, 
But  scarce  his  heavy  eyes  were  shut 
Before  he  heard  a  lady  weep. 

With  horrid  chill  his  marrow  crept, 
But  brave  spoke  out  his  heart  so  stout : 
'  'Twas  but  the  winds  the  roof  that  swept, 
The  storm  is  wild  and  fierce  without !" 

He  saw  the  glimmer  of  a  veil, 
The  waving  of  a  garment  white, 
A  face  looked  in  most  fair  and  pale, 
And  swift  he.  followed  through  the  night. 


THE. LADY'S  GHOST.  355 

And  follow,  follow,  through  the  sand, 
And  follow  through  the  midnight  drear; 
Behold  that  bleeding  beckoning  hand 
Those  eyes  of  dread,  that  face  of  fear ! 

In  Sable's  isle  a  lake  there  lies, 
A  gloomy  lake  with  desert  shore, 
Above,  the  sea-gull  screams  and  flies ; 
Beyond,  the  angry  breakers  roar. 

Straight  on  and  on  that  dame  has  gone 
And  plunged  beneath  the  sullen  wave, 
The  sight  has  passed,  the  dream  is  done, 
He  only  heard  the  tempest  rave. 

But  lo !  within  the  lonesome  cot 
Again  he  saw  that  pallid  face 
It  waved  him  from  the  haunted  spot ; 
But  now  the  knight  took  heart  of  grace. 

Speak  out !  speak  out !  my  uncle's  wife ! 
Why  dost  thou  like  a  spectre  stand  ? 
Say !  wert  thou  slain   in  mortal  strife, 
And  who  hath  torn  thy  bleeding  hand  ?" 

As  hollow  as  the  mournful  moan 
That  cries  and  creeps  in  ocean  shell ; 
As  faint  and  far,  as  sad  and  lone, 
As  over  seas  a  tolling  bell. 


356  BALLADS. 

So  sounds  the  voice  Sir  Roger  knows, 
The  voice  that  once  rang  sweet  and  clear,  - 
"  My  bones  beneath  this  sand  repose, 
My  soul  is  spelled  to  wander  here. 

"  Alas  !  alas !  woe  worth  the  day, 
I  sailed  away  from  Britain's  shore, 
Along  the  dreadful  seas  to  stray, 
To  see  my  lord,  my  home,  no  more. 

"  A  pirate  ship  behind  us  came 
With  flying  sails  and  fiends  for  crew ; 
The  Dian  sank  in  blood  and  flame 
The  gold  they  took  the  men  they  slew. 

"  Then  rose  a  storm  full  loud  and  strong, 
Their  ship  they  lost,  they  saved  their  men ; 
No  tongue  can  tell  what  shame  and  wrong 
They  wrought  within  this  dreadful  den. 

"  They  tore  away  my  bridal  ring, 
They  mocked  my  cries  of  woe  and  fear, 
A  foul,  dismayed,  dishonored  thing, 
I  plunged  beneath  the  waters  here. 

"  My  tale  is  done,  my  rest  is  won  ; 
Go  range  and  rage  across  the  sea 
Till  every  pirate's  race  be  run, 
Avenge  with  blood  my  lord  and  me !" 


THE  LADY'S  GHOST.  357 

She  faded  like  the  fading  stars. 

Full  chill  and  wild  the  dawn  wind  blew 

Along  the  horizon's  level  bars 

The  north-lights'  quivering  lances  flew. 

Sir  Roger  swore  an  oath  of  might 
Before  her  fair  and  fading  ghost. 
To  be  that  lady's  loyal  knight 
To  spoil  and  slay  the  pirate's  host. 

And  far  away  in  Britain's  isle 

The  bells  were  knelled  the  death-mass  said 

For  in  the  castle  chapel's  aisle 

That  night  her  lord  lay  cold  and  dead. 


358 


THE    BRIDES   OF   FIRE. 

A    SYRIAN    LEGEND. 

DARK  are  the  vaults  of  Istakhar ; 

Of  onyx  black  and  porphyry, 

Their  lofty  caverns  rise  so  far 

No  eye  the  rock-ribbed  roof  may  see. 

Deep  in  the  mountain's  heart  they  be ; 

So  deep  that  never  sun-  nor  star, 

Illumes  their  awful  mystery. 

Wall  over  wall,  and  cell  on  cell, 

The  Afreets,  slaved  by  mighty  spell, 

Toiled  ages  long  to  hollow  them ; 

And  ages  more  to  hew  the  walls 

Like  facets  of  some  precious  gem. 

But  in  those  wide  and  lofty  halls 

No  quivering  splendors  of  the  air, 

No  fiery  spark,  or  moon-lit  ray 

Lit  up  the  arches  vast  and  bare ; 

Till  Zohank,  Giamschid's  dreadful  son, 

Made  league  and  covenant  with  hell 

That  Eblis  should  uphold  his  throne, 

Yield  him  the  caves  of  Istakhar, 

And  grant  him*power  of  sign  and  spell, 

To  work  perpetual  miracle, 

Deep  hid  where  men  nor  angels  are. 


THE    BRIDES    OF    FIRE.  359 

But  from  the  blackness  of  his  soul, 
The  price  and  penance  of  his  sin, 
Twin  monsters  of  a  dragon  brood, 
Fed  day  by  day  with  human  blood, 
Sprang  up  those  secret  vaults  within, 
And  mocked  at  Zohank's  vain  control, 
Year  after  year,  through  all  the  land, 
Were  sire,  and  son,  and  wife,  and  maid, 
And  crying  children  hand  in  hand, 
And  infants  smiling  undismayed, 
Borne  to  the  Mount  of  Misery's  breast 
To  still  those  serpents'  fierce  unrest. 

Merab,  the  wondrous  Persian  sage, 

Rose  up  at  dawn  from  his  divan. 

His  mighty  beard  was  white  with  age, 

But  down  its  silvery  fleeces  ran 

Tears  that  had  shamed  a  younger  man  ; 

For  hurrying  slaves,  with  shrieks  and  cries, 

Told  how  his  daughters,  sore  bestead, 

The  light  and  glory  of  his  eyes, 

Were  Zohank's  prey.     Oh !  worse  than  dead, 

Rapt  to  the  vaults  of  Istakhar ! 

Seven  sweet  fair  maids  as  e'er  the  moon 

Kissed  with  her  tranquil  virgin  ray 

At  night's  serene  and  silent  noon ; 

And  pure  as  heaven  at  dawning  day. 

Too  true  the  tale ;  that  sister  crowd. 
With  clinging  arms,  and  faces  bowed, 


360  BALLADS. 

Shivering  and  cringing  in  despair 

With  tangled  clouds  of  yellow  hair 

About  their  ivory  shoulders  falling; 

And  voices  low  as  ring-doves  calling, 

Or  as  a  child  in  sleep  that  speaks : 

And  dark  eyes,  soft  as  violets  are  : 

Stood  in  the  vaults  of  Istakhar, 

Each  like  to  each  as  star  to  star : 

And  down  on  every  white  cymar, 

Sole  garment  of  their  loveliness, 

The  tears  dripped  fast  o'er  pallid  cheeks, 

That  once  were  like  the  almond's  bloom  : 

And  sobbing  breaths  with  faint  perfume 

Filled  all  the  lofty  darkened  room  : 

Dark,  yet  alight  with  wavering  glow. 

Dark  to  such  light  were  happiness, 

That  light  from  such  dread  source  did  flow. 

For  one  vast  sheet  of  adamant, 
Thin  as  a  rose-leaf's  petal  fine, 
Clear  as  the  clearness  of  the  air. 
Yet  harder  than  the  primal  rock 
Whose  peaks  a  thousand  tempests  mock, 
Kept  guard  before  the  serpents'  haunt 
And  held  them  in  their  secret  lair. 
Secret  no  more,  for  every  crest 
Glowed  with  a  tongue  of  lurid  fire, 
And  coil  on  coil,  both  back  and  breast, 
Gleamed  with  the  gleam  of  torch-lit  wine ; 
And,  stirred  with  hunger  or  with  ire 


THE    BRIDES    OF    FIRE.  361 

On  every  scale  a  diamond  burned, 
Till  light  in  waves,  like  storm-tossed  ocean, 
Followed  where'er  they  writhed  and  turned ; 
Fires  that  with  every  sinuous  motion 
Faded,  and  flashed,  and  died  again. 
And  flamed  anew,  and  still  displayed 
Their  horrid  jaws,  and  tongues  that  quiver 
To  lap  the  hot  and  scarlet  river 
Throbbing  in  every  maiden  vein. 

Wild  with  the  sight,  of  death  afraid, 

Yet  calling  Azrael  to  their  aid, 

So  might  they  such  a  death  evade, 

And  swoon  in  terror's  ecstasy 

Unto  the  nether  world  of  shade 

E'er  each  the  other's  fate  should  see ;  — 

Twined  in  themselves,  like  clustered  flowers 

A  sudden  tempest  beats  together, 

Or  doves  that  some  sharp  stress  of  weather 

Drives  to  the  dove-cot  in  a  crowd, 

They  dare  not  lift  those  faces,  cowed 

Before  the  terrors  of  their  cell, 

But  waited  silently  and  sad 

As  for  some  subtly  working  spell ; 

For  grief  and  agony  were  spent. 

And  now  despair  its  stupor  lent. 

Not  always  breaks  the  thunder-cloud 

On  him  who  heavenly  wrath  awaiteth ; 

There  are  no  voices,  low  or  loud, 

But  Allah  hears.     His  head  is  bowed,- 


362  BALLADS. 

The  prayer  of  faith  His  stroke  abateth ; 
Whereat  all  Paradise  is  glad. 

Soft  rustling  through  that  darkened  prison 
A  stir  of  wings,  a  sudden  bloom, 
Dawned  on  the  terrors  of  their  doom. 
Ah  !  were  they  Azrael's  footsteps  fleet  ? 
That  stealing  light  the  daybreak  sweet 
Of  heaven  beyond  the  tomb  ? 
"  Leila,  arise !"  a  voice,  —  a  sigh,  — 
A  subtle  breath  of  destiny 
Smote  on  her  ear;  her  face  uplifting 
The  maid  arose,  and  overhead 
Like  motes  across  a  sun-ray  drifting 
Saw,  in  the  far  dim  air,  a  head, 
Dark  gleaming  wings,  a  shape  of  splendor, 
Eyes  bent  on  hers,  serene  and  tender, 
As  planets  on  the  night  arisen. 
The  spirit  spake.  —  "  Sweet  mortal  maid, 
Be  not  of  spirit  sight  afraid. 
Azel  am  I,  a  Prince  of  Fire ; 
The  king  and  lord  of  Ginnistan. 
I  would  not  own  the  rule  of  man, 
Poor  clay-born  toy  !     Far  rather  reign 
O'er  realms  beneath  his  tiny  world ; 
Therefore  by  Allah  was  I  hurled 
Down  the  deep  spaces  of  the  air 
To  taste  the  depths  of  my  desire. 
Lo !  Merab  makes  his  daily  prayer 
Alike  to  Allah  and  to  me, 


THE    BRIDES    OF    FIRE.  363 

Both  rulers  of  man's  destiny ; 
Wherefore  I  heard  him  sore  complain, 
And  Azel  heareth  not  in  vain, 
Arise  from  death,  fair  maiden  train, 
Here  is  your  aid  !" 

Behind,  beyond, 
Like  ripples  circling  in  a  pond 
With  serious  brows  and  eyes  of  light, 
And  rainbow  wings  half  furled  from  flight, 
And  kingly  foreheads  crowned  with  flame, 
And  haughty  lips,  his  brethren  came. 

Well  might  those  maids  the  cohort  dread ! 

Well  shiver  with  a  terror  new  : 

But  dread  is  death.     He  sayeth  true 

Who  likens  it  to  Haroun's  rod, 

That  prophet  of  the  mighty  God 

Whose  serpent  wand  devoured  the  rest. 

New  life  sprang  up  in  every  breast 

When  that  almighty  terror  fled. 

And  as  toward  heaven's  arching  blue 

The  tall  white  daisies  turn  and  smile, 

When  summer  on  the  land  is  spread, 

Those  maidens  raised  their  dewy  eyes, 

And  held  their  white  hands  up  in  prayer, 

As  offering  some  dread  sacrifice 

The  wrath  of  Allah  to  beguile. 

No  pleading  looks  of  love  were  there, 

A  mortal  terror  moved  them  only. 

But  Azel  gathered  them  aloft 


364  BALLADS. 

Even  as  sunshine  drinks  the  dew ; 
And  on  those  pinions  broad  and  soft 
The  Prince  and  peers  of  Ginnistan 
Bore  far  from  home  or  haunt  of  man 
Their  fair  young  brides,  to  regions  lonely 
Lovelier  than  Eden,  safe  and  far 
From  the  dark  vaults  of  Istakhar. 

And  as  the  years  of  Allah  ran 
Tireless  and  true,  to  Zohank's  sway 
Brave  Feridoun  put  timely  end, 
And  in  the  caves  of  Demavend 
Prisoned  him  howling  evermore : 
And  all  the  land  from  shore  to  shore 
Clamored  with  joy. 

Then  Kurdistan    . 

Fell  to  new  rule :  from  Tugrut's  towers 
Seven  mighty  youths  as  hunters  came 
With  swarthy  locks,  and  eyes  of  flame, 
And  ruled  the  land  with  equal  powers, 
And  old-time  Syrian  legends  say 
Their  mothers  went  from  Persia's  bowers 
Through  Istakhar  to  Ginnistan, 
Brides  to  no  sons  of  mortal  man, 
But  wedded  to  the  Kings  of  Fire 
Who  baffled  Zohank's  fell  desire. 


THE   SQUIRE'S   BOAR    HUNT. 


COME,  gallop  my  masters !     Come  gallop  my  men  ! 
There's  roaring  and  routing  in  Enderby  Fen, 
Hark !  hear  the  hounds'  music !  the  boar  is  at  bay. 
There'll  be  fun  in  the  Fen  before  curfew  to-day. 

A  squeal  ?  there's  the  brood  with  the  sow  at  their  head. 
Hola !  through  the  osiers  how  fleet  they  have  fled ! 
But  the  lord  of  the  lair  is  not  trotting  beside.  — 
Ride  faster !  spur  deeper !  the  boar  will  abide. 

Whoop !  down  in  yon  sallets  his  holt  is.     I  see 

The  glint  of  his  eye  past  that  pollarded  tree. 

Now  Ripper!     Now  Bolder!     down!    down  from  the 

bank! 
Now  Brave,  to  his  ear,  sir !     Now  Stark  to  his  flank  ! 

Spur  John  o'  the  Garner.     Rush  on  with  your  spear ! 
The  dogs  will  hold  firm.     Holy  saints !  he  is  clear! 
He  has  ripped  up  old  Bolder  from  muzzle  to  stern, 
And  Brave  lies  behind  him ;  and  Stark  has  his  turn. 

Loose  Vixen  and  Badger !  a  sanglier  is  he 

Set  the  hounds  on  at  force ;  send  the  relays  to  me ! 

Am  I  hunting  the  boar  like  a  damsel  at  play  ? 

Gogs  ounds !  shall  he  daunt  me  and  'scape  me  to-day  ? 


366  BALLADS. 

Ho !  Vixen  hath  seized  him.     Pst !  to  him,  my  lass ! 
Here  comes  the  fresh  relay.     Now  guard  the  morass ! 
Will  he  fight  ?  will  he  flee  ?     Holy  Hubert !  look  here, 
He's  routing!    he's  charging!    he's  snapped  my  good 
spear ! 

Well  done !  John  o'  Garner.     I  pattered  a  prayer, 
Sure  thought  I  he  had  me ;  and  but  you  were  there 
I  too  had  been  slashed  with  the  rip  of  his  tusk. 
Bless  the  rood !  it  is  over.     We're  home-set  by  dusk. 

Ha !  here's  my  young  master.     Yes,  look  you,  that  boar 
Had  nigh  served  your  Dad  that  you  had  me  no  more. 
But  John  o'  the  Garner  like  fire-flaught  came  on, 
Upright  in  the  stirrup,  his  spear-point  borne  down ; 

His  good  charger  volted ;  his  stout  arm  made  thrust ; 
Pricked  right  twixt  the  shoulders  my  lord  tasted  dust ! 
Look  ye  there,  at  those  tushes !  that  wicked  red  eye ! 
That  ear  that  Brave  tore,  when  he  tossed  him  to  die ! 

A  sanglier  of  hundreds !  have  off  with  his  head ! 
Full  nobly  and  bravely  our  hunting  hath  sped. 
Come !     Up  from  the  Fen,  and  away  o'er  the  moor ! 
We'll  end  with  high  revel  this  hunt  of  the  boar. 


367 


MARY    OF    SCOTLAND. 

"  ^4  lions  done!"  she  then  said.  "Let  us  go!"  and  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  an  officer  of  the  guard  she  descended  the  great  staircase  to 
the  hall. — FROUDE's  HISTORY. 

"  Go  on  !"     To  that  imperial  throne 
She  made  a  glory  and  a  shame  ? 
No.     Mary  Stuart  stood  alone, 
Her  queenly  crown  an  empty  name. 

"  Go  on !"     She  waved  her  royal  hand. 
Go  where  ?    to  that  dear  distant  France 
The  loved,  the  lost,  the  joyous  land 
Where  once  she  led  the  song  and  dance  ? 

On  to  that  home  where  once  her  child, 
Born  to  her  grief,  the  heir  of  tears, 
Looked  in  his  mother's  face  and  smiled, 
Unconscious  of  her  foes  and  fears  ? 

Ah,  no !    her  youth,  her  hope,  were  dead : 
Her  boy  a  stranger,  far  away  : 
The  glamor  of  a  crown  was  fled, 
This  was  her  last,  her  dying  day. 

She  stood  so  calm,  so  still,  so  proud, 
So  firm  amid  a  hundred  foes, 


368  BALLADS. 

So  careless  of  that  eager  crowd, 
So  crowned  anew  with  fatal  woes, 

So  scornful  of  the  cruel  death 
That  waited,  crouched  beyond  the  door, 
The  ruthless  jailors  held  their  breath, 
The  mail-clad  warriors  spake  no  more. 

"  Go  on !"  —  and  on  the  grim  Earls  went. 
There  was  the  scaffold,  —  there  the  block ; 
The  murderous  axe  against  it  leant. 
They  moved  her  not;    her  heart  was  rock. 

The  spirit  of  her  kingly  race 
Inspired  her  soul  and  fired  her  eye ; 
A  smile  lit  up  her  tranquil  face 
"  You  thought  a  queen  would  fear  to  die  ?" 

She  clasped  the  cross  against  her  breast 
"  Oh  Lord !   thine  arms  upon  the  tree 
Spread  for  the  world;    now  give  me  rest: 
Forgive  !     Redeem !     I  come  to  Thee." 

The  maidens  loosed  her  widow's  veil 
And  laid  the  sable  robe  aside; 
Their  cheeks  were  wet,  their  lips  were  pale, 
But  hers  were  red  with  scorn  and  pride. 

Fair  in  her  blood-red  gown  she  stood ; 
A  rose  against  the  stormy  skies, 


MARY    OF    SCOTLAND.  369 

That  in  some  garden  solitude 
Uplifts  its  stately  head,  —  and  dies ! 

"  Weep  not  my  Ladies ;    weep  no  more. 
Farewell ;   farewell !    we  meet  again. 
Oh  Lord  amid  my  troubles  sore 
I  trust  in  Thee,  nor  trust  in  vain." 

She  laid  her  head  upon  the  block, 
And  murmured  low  —  "  In  Thee  I  trust." 
Down  fell  the  axe  with  thundering  shock, 
Mary  the  Queen  was  common  dust. 

The  beauteous  face,  the  smiling  lips. 
Wrinkled  and  set  in  aged  gloom! 
So  from  some  tree  a  tempest  strips 
In  one  brief  gust,  its  leaf  and  bloom. 

Leave  her  the  peace  that  life  denied : 
Her  sins  and  follies  all  are  o'er; 
A  Queen  she  lived,  a  Queen  she  died, 
Peace  to  her  ashes  !    ask  no  more. 


37° 


THE  HONOR  OF  GUZMAN  EL  BUENO. 


DON    GUZMAN  in   Tarifa,    heard    Moorish    cymbals 

sound ; 
He  saw  the  host  advancing  fast  that  compassed  him 

around ; 
The  swarthy  lips  that  cursed  him,  the  red  eyes  fired 

with  hate, 
The  voices  hoarse  that  cried  on  him  to  open  wide  the 

gate. 

He  saw  the  turbaned  army  with  banners  floating  far, 
The  green  flag  of  Mahomet,  the  flag  of  ruthless  war, 
He  saw  the  crescent  glittering  high,  the  tossing  crowds 

below, 
And  smote  upon  his  mighty  breast,  like  one  in  mortal 

woe. 

"  Come  down,  thou  boasting  Spaniard !  come  down  and 

meet  the  Moor ! 

Yield  up  Tarifa's  fortress,  unbar  that  frowning  door ! 
Look  !  countless  as  the  sea-sand  our  angry  millions 

wait, 
To  raze  thy  lofty  castle,  and  slay  thee  at  the  gate." 


THE  HONOR  OF  GUZMAN  EL  BUENO.      371 

"  I  will  not  yield  Tarifa  !"  His  voice  rung  like  a  horn, 
That  challenges  the  breezes  through  wild  sierras  borne. 
Above  the  battlements  he  rose  and  showed  his  stately 

height, 
Tall   as   a   pine-tree   on   the   plain  that   mocks   the 

tempest's  might. 

"  I  will  not  yield  Tarifa  though  all  the  Moors  in  Spain 
Set  on  me  with  their  scimitars,  as  reapers  cut  the 

grain  : 
No  Moslem   hound  shall    enter   here ;    no  crescent, 

soon  or  late, 
Float  over  old  Tarifa.     I  will  not  yield  the  gate !" 

"  Ha  !    ha  !    thou  valiant    Spaniard ;    thou'rt   scant   of 

courtesy  ; 
Look  outward  from  thy  turret,  behold   yon    furious 

sea  ! 
Its  waves  are  like  our  mighty  host ;   thy  fortress  like 

the  sand, 
By  Allah  !  we  will  sweep  it  clean  from  off  the  Spanish 

land! 

Duke  Guzman  of  Medina  whom  all  men  called  "  the 

Good," 
Looked  down  upon  the  dazzling  plain,  the  surging 

Moorish  brood, 
"  See   yonder  !"    then   he  called   aloud,  "  old    Calpe's 

awful  rock, 
Lo  !    ever  since  God   made  the  world   it  bides  the 

ocean's  shock. 


372  BALLADS. 

"  So  standeth  here  Tarifa  in  might  and  majesty  : 
It  laughs  to  scorn  your  puny  crowds,  as  Calpe  scorns 

the  sea, 

God  for  Castile  and  Leon !  Fling  out  the  cross  on  high ! 
I'll  hold  my  tower  for  all  your  power ;  ye  hosts  of 

heathenry  !" 

"  Ha  !"  sneered  the  Moorish  monarch  :  "  we  hold  him 

in  our  grip. 
Here,  bowmen  of  the  guard,  lead  out  your  captive 

from  the  ship. 
Don  Guzman,  if  the  tower  withstand,  your  heart's 

best  blood  shall  flow. 
Look  on  this  fettered  stripling !     Is  that  a  face  you 

know  ?" 

As  lightning  sears  the  lofty  oak  so  horror  seared  his 

brain, 
A  cloud  be-dimmed  his  vision ;  Don  Guzman  looked 

again ; 
There  stood  his  son,  his  fair  young  son,  a  hostage  to 

the  foe, 
Was  ever  man  in  such  a  strait  since  first  the  world 

did  grow  ? 

Again  fierce  Yussuf  taunted  him.     "  Come  down,  or 

else  he  dies, 

This  darling  of  his  mother,  this  light  of  Guzman's  eyes! 
One  prick  of  Moslem  dagger,  one  twang  of  Moslem 

bow, 
Will  mar  that  beauteous  visage  and  lay  those  ringlets 

low  !" 


THE  HONOR  OF  GUZMAN  EL  BUENO.      373 

Even  as  a  knight  his  courser  reins,  when  maddened 

by  the  fray 
With   pawing   hoofs,   and   snortings   proud,   he   fain 

would  tear  away ; 
So    Guzman    set   his   sturdy    will    against    his    rebel 

heart. 
"And   dost   thou    think    that    Guzman    could   play  a 

traitor's  part  ? 

"  I  fling  thee  down  my  dagger,  its  blade  is  bright  and 

keen, 
Slay  thou  my  boy  before  my  face,  but  look  the  thrust 

is  clean  ! 

I  will  not  yield  Tarifa  !  —  not  though  mine  eyes  behold 
The  red  blood  of  mine  only  son  spurt  on  thy  mantle's 

fold! 

"  Thou  heathen  king !   thou  paynim  Moor !    how  can 

thy  false  heart  know 

The  honor  of  Medina  is  more  than  joy  or  woe  ? 
The  loyalty  of  Guzman  is  mightier  than  his  love, 
Farewell  my  boy !     Oh  !  ease  the  stroke,  ye  martyr- 
saints  above !" 

Hark !  tis  the  shout  of  old  Castile.     "  For  God  and 

for  Saint  James  !" 

The  gonfalon  of  Leon  above  the  Moslem  flames, 
Alfonso  to  the  rescue !  the  battle  hath  begun  ! 
And  all  the  sand  runs  red  with  blood  before  the  day 

is  done. 


374  BALLADS. 

Two  hundred  thousand  Moslems  strew  Tarifa's  ruddy 

plain, 

But  many  a  goodly  Christian  lies  cold  amid  the  slain  ; 
And  Guzman  el  Bueno  hath  lost  his  fair  young  son, 
But  the  honor  of  Medina  at  a  priceless  ransom  won ! 


THE    SPANIEL'S    REVENGE. 

"  Love  me  love  my  dog." 
A    LEGEND. 

THE  lady's  footsteps  fall  like  snow  upon  the  castle 

floor, 
The  lady's  fingers,  small  and  white,  can  scarce  unbar 

the  door, 

Her  light  feet  falter  on  the  stair,  her  pulses  faintly  beat. 
Dear  heaven  above !  —  or  earthly  love  —  send  aid  to 

Marguerite ! 

Lone  leaning  on  the  castle  wall  she  looks  far  out  to  sea, 
Oh  for  those  sailing  pinions  whereon  the  sea-gulls  flee ! 
Tear  after  tear,  a  torrid  shower,  in  sparkling  silence  fell, 
Seen  by  one  wistful  gazer,  —  her  little  dog  Fidel. 


THE  SPANIEL'S  REVENGE.  375 

A  spaniel  soft  as  thistle  down,  and  clouded  like  the  sky, 
With  hanging  ears  like  silken  curls,  and  fond  looks  in 

his  eye ; 

One  other  thing  the  lady  holds  alone  as  dear  as  he, 
The  dread  of  all  the  house  beside,  —  her  bloodhound 

Favori. 

Fierce  as  the  spotted  panther  that  crouches  in  the  wild, 
Yet  to  the  Countess  Marguerite  as  gentle  as  a  child, 
The  lackeys  who  purvey  his  food  dare  never  venture 

near, 
But  round  his  neck  her  white  arms  twine  without  a 

thought  of  fear. 

Ah  !  who  will  stroke  his  muzzle  now  ?  and  feed  him 

from  her  hand  ? 
In  vain  at  morning  and  at  night  with  eager  eyes  he'll 

stand, 

The  lady  to  another  bower  hath  sent  her  maiden  train, 
The  turrets  grey  of  Chatenaye  she'll  never  see  again. 

Before  her  baby  lips  could  speak  her  troth-plight  had 

been  passed, 

For  she  of  all  her  ancient  line  was  loveliest  and  last. 
Her  father  on  his  bed  of  death  has  forced  from  her  a 

vow, 
To  wed  with  speed  the  cruel  Count  who  waits  at 

Cre9y  now. 

So  she  must  leave  the  lordly  towers  that  nursed  her 

gentle  life, 
To  wed  a  fierce  and  evil  man,  to  be  Count  Crec.y's  wife; 


376  BALLADS. 

For  seven  days  and  nights  to  dwell  beside  her  lady 

aunt. 
And  then  to  leave  for  Cregy's  keep  each  loved  and 

lovely  haunt. 

Six  sunny  days  have  fled  away  like  blossoms  fair  and 

sweet, 
Ah!   is  it  so,  that  heaven  nor  earth  can  aid  poor 

Marguerite  ? 
When  high  above,  the  summer  sun  the  seventh  day 

did  ride 
She  strayed  along  the  greenwood  path,  Count  Cre^y 

at  her  side. 

Out  of  the  thicket  as  they  passed  rushed  forth   a 

wounded  doe, 

And  after  her  a  little  fawn  with  tottering  steps  and  slow. 
The  parted  hazels  close  behind,  but  ere  their  branches 

met 
A  huntsman  leapt  before  them,  in  liveried  gold  and  jet. 

The  lady  knew  his  colors,  and  shrieked,  "  Ah !  spare 

the  doe !" 
Count  Cre$y  stretched  his  gauntlet  forth  and  felled 

him  at  a  blow. 
"  Ah  cruel !"  cried  fair  Marguerite,   "  he  might  have 

killed  the  deer 
Better  than  you  had  slain  a  man,  and  slain  he  is  I  fear." 

"  Hold  there  !"  the  rough  Count  muttered.     "  I  did  the 
serf  no  harm  : 


THE  SPANIEL'S  REVENGE.  377 

Shall  I  not  kill  too,  if  I  will  ?"  and  close  he  grasped 

her  arm, 
So  close  that  on  the  pallid  wrist  five  crimson  printings 

stood, 
And  more  in  anger  than  in  pain  her  cry  rang  through 

the  wood. 

Fidel,  the  little  Spaniel,  heard ;  and  for  his  lady's  sake 
Sprang  upward  in   a   fierce  attempt   Count   Cray's 

throat  to  take, 
But   backward    to   the   ground    he   fell    and    Cregy 

laughed  aloud  : 
"  Methinks    for   such    a   maiden's   pet    thine    aim    is 

wondrous  proud." 

Then   angrily   spake    Marguerite  —  "  Ah  !    might   it 

only  be 

In  thy  place,  little  weak  Fidel,  my  bloodhound  Favori, 
I    promise   you,    Sir   Count,   your   laugh   had   been 

another  note, 
If  those  white  fangs  had  glittered  keen  against  your 

bearded  throat !" 

She  whistled  at  her  silver  call,  but  nothing  stirred  beside, 

'•  Fidel,  who  only  loved  me !"  said  to  herself  the  bride. 

No  glance  she  gave  her  bridegroom,  but  when    the 

chapel 
Rang  out  next  morn  for  matins,  it  sounded  like  a  knell. 

The  lady  aunt  came  rustling  stiff,  and  tapping  for  the 
maid  : 


378  BALLADS. 

"The  Count  waits  in  the  chapel,  and  thou  not  yet 

arrayed  ?" 
Right  hastily  she  drew  the  veil  to  hide  her  dropping 

tears, 
And  lingered  on  the  winding  stair  as  one  oppressed 

with  years. 

She  paused  beside  the  oriel :  was  that  a  bloodhound's 

bay  ? 
Hasten  sweet  lady   Marguerite !    the  guests  are  on 

their  way ; 
Rank  after  rank  of  knight  and  dame,  but  thou  must 

be  the  first, 
And  into  that  old  chapel  like  summer  sunshine  burst. 

She  crossed  the  hall  beside  the  priest,  the  portal  softly 

swung, 
But  ere  her  eyes  could  note  that  plume  before  the 

altar  flung, 
There,    trembling    in    his    dumb   delight,    her    little 

spaniel  stood, 
And  leaping  on  her  bridal  dress  has  marked  his  paws 

in  blood. 

Ah  me  !  one  step  the  father  took  —  there  lay  Count 

Crec.y,  dead. 
Thick  blood  welled  on  his  broidered  vest,  and  dyed 

his  doublet  red. 
So  had   he  died,  before   his  bride   had  passed  the 

chapel  door, 
And  Favori  who  throttled  him  lay  panting  on  the  floor. 


379 


THE    SAFFRON    FLY. 

A    LEGEND    OF    BRITTANY. 

JUDOCK  the  sorcerer,  Kakous  born, 
Master  of  magic  sign  and  spell, 

Skilled  to  measure  the  thought  of  man, 
Wise  with  the  wisdom  of  lower  hell, — 

Judock,  hated  and  mocked  and  feared, 
Hid  in  the  shadow  of  Mont  d'Yve, 

High  and  scornful  to  men  appeared, 
But  the  soul  within  him  cursed  all  day. 

Mad  with  the  lust  of  gold  was  he, 
Thirsty  for  riches  as  sea  for  sands ; 

Long  he  pondered  .the  mystery 

Of  hoarding  spirits  and  hiding  hands. 

Morn  and  midnight  he  travailed  well, 
Wrought  with  signet  and  spell  of  power, 

Till  the  Spirit  of  Sin  in  the  rock  that  dwells 
He  bound  and  tortured  in  evil  hour. 

Round  and  round,  and  seven  times  round, 
Him  he  bound  with  a  mighty  chain. 


380  BALLADS. 

Till  Debrua  howled  like  a  beaten  hound, 
And  shook  and  shuddered  in  mortal  pain. 

Loud  he  yelled,  "  O  master  of  men ! 

Set  me  free,  and  I  will  not  lie ! 
Gold  and  jewels  his  hands  shall  fill 

Who  finds  and  catches  the  Saffron  Fly. 

"  Weave  of  thy  whitest  hair  a  net,  — 

Weave  it  only  with  three  times  three; 
Soak  it  in  blood  and  wash  in  sweat, 
So  shall  the  Fly  thy  captive  be." 

Judock  severed  the  mighty  chain, 

The  sword  of  Solomon  cleft  it  through; 

With  screech,  and  laughter,  and  yell  of  hate, 
Back  to  the  rocks  old  Debraa  flew. 

Judock  wove  the  wondrous  net, 
Hunted  the  Fly  by  night  and  day; 

Thorns  and  briers  his  path  beset, 

Tearing  the  flesh  from  his  bones  away. 

Wild  the  black  rocks  over  him  frowned, 
His  blood  ran  cold,  he  was  like  to  die, 

Or  ever  above  that  haunted  ground 
Danced  and  glittered  the  Saffron  Fly. 

Seven  long  days,  through  mire  and  mud, 
Well  he  followed  its  freakish  flight, 


THE    SAFFRON    FLY.  381 

Till  overhead,  on  a  peasant's  hut, 
He  saw  the  glimmering  wings  alight. 

His  bones  were  stiff,  his  flesh  was  cold, 
He  could  not  climb  a  fathom  higher; 

For  one  more  chance  at  the  Fly  of  gold 
He  set  the  peasant's  hut  on  fire. 

Loud  they  shrieked  who  burned  within. 

What  cared  he,  for  the  Fly,  it  flew ! 
Low  he  cursed  and  fast  he  ran, 

Black  the  cinders  after  him  blew. 

Now  it  lights,  —  on  a  fennel-tree  ! 

Flower  of  fennel  no  witch  abides. 
The  greedy  fingers  grew  numb  and  weak; 

The  Fly  of  fortune  his  chase  derides. 

By  there  wandered  a  shepherd  lad ; 

Fair  to  see  was  the  yellow  Fly ; 
Slowly  he  reached  his  slender  hand, 

And  safe  within  it  did  fortune  lie. 

Judock's  dagger  was  keen  and  fine  ; 

Deep  to  the  shepherd's  heart  it  sped. 
Loud  he  laughed  as  he  caught  the  Fly 

Out  of  the  fingers  of  the  dead. 

Fair  is  fortune,  and  evil  too  ; 

Close  he  grasped,  and  sharp  it  stung ; 


382  BALLADS. 

The  hand  that  gathers  with  love  nor  ruth 
Gathers  sorrow  for  old  or  young  ! 

Gold  like  pebbles  his  coffers  filled ; 

Gorgeous  garments  and  spreading  lands, 
Gems  like  the  dews  of  morning  spilled, 

All  were  gathered  by  Judock's  hands  : 

All !  —  and  the  blessing  of  Saint  Sequaire ; 

Cursed  blessing,  that  dries  the  heart. 
His  blood  grew  thick  and  his  body  spare, 

He  felt  the  life  from  his  veins  depart. 

Light  grew  dark  to  his  groping  gaze, 
Bitter  was  food,  the  wine  cup  dry ; 

In  a  year  and  a  day  he  wasted  away, 
And  his  soul  died  cursing  the  Saffron  Fly. 


383 


FRONTIER   BALLADS. 


AFTER    THE    CAMANCHES. 

SADDLE,   saddle,    saddle ! 

Mount   and   gallop   away 
Over   the   dim    green   prairie, 

Straight   on    the   track   of  day. 
Spare   not   spur   for   mercy, 

Hurry   with   shout   and   thong, 
Fiery   and   tough   is   the   mustang, 

The   prairie   is    wide   and   long. 

Saddle,   saddle,    saddle ! 

Leap   from   the   broken   door 
Where   the   brute    Camanche    entered 

And   the   white-foot   treads   no   more. 
The   hut   is   burned   to   ashes, 

There   are   dead   men   stark   outside, 
But   only   a   long   dark    ringlet 

Left    of  the   stolen   bride. 


384  BALLADS. 

Go,   like   the   east-wind's   howling ! 

Ride   with    death   behind. 
Stay   not   for   food   or   slumber, 

Till   the    thieving   wolves   ye   find ! 
They   came   before   the   wedding, 

Swifter   than   prayer   or   priest: 
The   bridemen   danced   to   bullets, 

The   wild   dogs   ate   the   feast. 

Look   to   rifle   and   powder ! 

Fasten   the   knife-belt   sure ; 
Loose   the   coil   of  the   lasso, 

Make   the   loop   secure ; 
Fold   the   flask   in   the   poncho, 

Fill   the   pouch   with   maize, 
And   ride   as   if  to-morrow 

Were   the   last   of  living   days ! 

Saddle,   saddle,    saddle ! 

Redden   spur   and   thong ; 
Ride   like   the   mad   tornado, 

The   track   is   lonely   and   long. 
Spare   not   horse   nor   rider ; 

Fly    for   the    stolen    bride ; 
Bring   her   home   on   the   crupper, 

A   scalp   on   either   side ! 


II. 


LOST    ON    THE    PRAIRIE. 

OH,  my  baby,  my  child,  my  darling ! 

Lost  and  gone  in  the  prairie  wild ; 
Mad  gray  wolves  from  the  forest  snarling, 

Snarling  for  thee,  my  little  child ! 

Lost,  lost !    gone  forever  ! 

Gay  snakes  rattled  and  charmed  and  sung; 
On  thy  head  the  sun's  fierce  fever, 

Dews  of  death  on  thy  white  lip  hung ! 

Dead  and  pale  in  the  moonlight's  glory, 
Cold  and  dead  by  the  black  oak-tree; 

Only  a  small  shoe,  stained  and  gory, 

Blood-red,  tattered,  —  comes  home  to  me. 

Over  the  grass  that  rolls,  like  ocean, 
On  and  on  to  the  blue,  bent  sky, 

Something  comes  with  a  hurried  motion, 
Something  calls  with  a  choking  cry,  — 

"  Here,  here  !    not  dead,  but  living  !" 

God  !    Thy  goodness  —  what  can  I  pray  ? 


386  BALLADS. 

Blessed  more  in  this  second  giving, 
Laid  in  happier  arms  to-day. 

Oh,  my  baby,  my  child,  my  darling ! 

Wolf  and  snake  and  the  lonely  tree 
Still  are  rustling,  hissing,  snarling ; 

Here's  my  baby  come  back  to  me ! 


III. 


DONE    FOR 


A  WEEK  ago  to-day,  when  red-haired  Sally 

Down  to  the  sugar-camp  came  to  see  me, 
I  saw  her  checked  frock  coming  down  the  valley, 

Far  as  anybody's  eyes  could  see. 
Now  I  sit  before  the  camp-fire, 

And  I  can't  see  the  pine-knots  blaze, 
Nor  Sally's  pretty  face  a-shining, 

Though  I  hear  the  good  words  she  says, 


DONE    FOR.  387 

A  week  ago  to-night  I  was  tired  and  lonely, 

Sally  was  gone  back  to  Mason's  fort, 
And  the  boys  by  the  sugar-kettles  left  me  only ; 

They  were  hunting  coons  for  sport. 
By  there  snaked  a  painted  Pawnee, 

I  was  asleep  before  the  fire ; 
He  creased  my  two  eyes  with  his  hatchet, 

And  scalped  me  to  his  heart's  desire. 

There  they  found  me  on  the  dry  tussocks  lying, 

Bloody  and  cold  as  a  live  man  could  be ; 
A  hoot-owl  on  the  branches  overhead  was  crying, 

Crying  murder  to  the  red  Pawnee. 
They  brought  me  to  the  camp-fire, 

They  washed  me  in  the  sweet  white  spring ; 
But  my  eyes  were  full  of  flashes, 

And  all  night  my  ears  would  sing. 

I  thought  I  was  a  hunter  on  the  prairie, 

But  they  saved  me  for  an  old  blind  dog ; 
When  the  hunting-grounds  are  cool  and  airy, 

I  shall  lie  here  like  a  helpless  log. 
I  can't  ride  the  little  wiry  pony, 

That  scrambles  over  hills  high  and  low ; 
I  can't  set  my  traps  for  the  cony. 

Or  bring  down  the  black  buffalo. 

I'm  no  better  than  a  rusty,  bursted  rifle, 
And  I  don't  see  signs  of  any  other  trail ; 


388  BALLADS. 

Here  by  the  camp-fire  blaze  I  lie  and  stifle, 
And  hear  Jim  fill  the  kettles  with  his  pail. 

It's  no  use  groaning.     I  like  Sally, 

But  a  Digger  squaw  wouldn't  have  me ! 

I  wish  they  hadn't  found  me  in  the  valley,  — - 
It's  twice  dead  not  to  see ! 


IV. 
BEE-HUNTING. 

WHEN   the   sky   is   red   and   hazy, 
And   the    winds   are   warm   and   lazy, 
And   the   blackbirds   chatter   crazy, 

Hurrah    for   the   forest   free ! 
The   Summer   days   are   over, 
The  bees   have   sucked   the   clover, 
And   the   honey-birds   call   and   hover 

Over   the   hollow   tree. 

Catch   the   bee   where   you   find   him, 
Follow   on    straight   behind   him, 
Till   home   to   his   nest   you've   lined   him, 
Then   sing   for   the   match   and   axe. 


BEE-HUNTING.  389 

Gather   bark   from   the   birches, 
Moss   where   the   screech-owl   perches, 
And   when   the   fire    smokes   and   smirches, 
Chop   till   the   tree-trunk    cracks. 

Ho,   boys !    stand   from   under ! 
Hear   it   topple   and  thunder ; 
Then   rush    in   for   the   plunder; 

Dripping   from   comb   and   chip ; 
Clear   as   sunlight   shining, 
It   drops   from   the   waxen   lining, 
Sugar   that   needs   no   fining, 

Fit   for   a   woman's   lip. 

Heap   it   in   pail   and   kettle, 
Never   go   off  with   a   little, 
Quick !    or   the   bees   will   settle 

On   something   beside   the   trees. 
Off  with   the   stolen   treasure ! 
The  bears   may   take   their  pleasure, 
Where   we   have   left   good   measure 

For   them   and   the   drowsy   bees. 

When   the   sky    is   red    and   hazy, 
And   the    winds   are   warm   and   lazy, 
And   the   blackbirds   chatter   crazy, 

Hurrah    for   the   forest    free ! 
The   Summer   days   are   over, 
But   we   get    the   best    of  the   clover, 
Where   the   honey-birds   call   and   hover: 

Out   of  a   hollow   tree : 


TRANSLATIONS 


393 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE    MOURNING   DOVE. 

(From  the  Hebrew.) 

ALAS  !    for   I    am   flying 

Through   deserts   lone   and   dreary, 
In   rocks   and   caverns   lying, 

With   downcast   soul   and   weary ; 
The   tempest   whirling   o'er  me, 

My   fluttering   wing   repelling, 
The   forest   spread   before   me, 

One   lonely   bough   my   dwelling. 

My   God   forsakes   the   altar 

Whereon    His   anger  burneth, 
And   where   my   weak   steps   falter, 

His   wrath   a   whirlwind   turneth ; 
I    pined   for   strange    caresses,  — 

For   aliens   madly   yearning 
Betrayed   the   hand   that    blesses, 

And   foes   beheld   my   turning. 


394  TRANSLATIONS. 

But   since   His   love   departed, 

Mine   eyes   have   failed   with    weeping, 
My   life   is   broken-hearted, 

Its   light   in   darkness    sleeping. 
Better   the   grave's   dominion 

Than   thus   forsaken   flying, 
And   blessed    death's   shadowy   pinion 

To   souls   in   anguish   crying. 

Behold   the   bird-mates   greeting 

With   fond   and   tender  kisses, 
Where  hearts   caress,   and,   meeting, 

Find   Eden's   purest   blisses ; 
Their   rest   is   fixed   forever, 

Deep   in   the   green   boughs   lying, 
Where   olive-branches   quiver, 

And   lilies   sweet   are   sighing. 

But    I    am   lost   and    weary, 

No   home   for   me   remaining ; 
Among   the   cleft   rocks   dreary, 

With   briers   and   thorns   complaining. 
My    God   forsakes   the   altar 

Whereon   his   anger  burneth ; 
And   where   my    weak   steps   falter, 

His   wrath   a   whirlwind   turneth. 

Fierce   eagles,    sunward   turning, 
Scream   to   their   mates   at   even; 

But   to   the   lone   dove   mourning, 
Nor   mate,    nor   home   is   given. 


THE    MOURNING    DOVE.          .  395 

Earth  with  their  rapine  groaneth, 
They  rest  in  peace  unheeding ; 

But  when  the  just  man  moaneth, 
The  heavens  refuse  his  pleading 

Return,   my    God !    my    glory ! 

Thou,    oh,   my   consolation ! 
Hear   Thou   the   fearful   story, 

And   rise  for   my   salvation. 
Unveil   Thy  love's  .clear   shining, 

Above   mine   anguish    hover, 
And   when    I    lie   repining, 

My   sins    with    mercy   cover ! 

Thus   in   the   night   I    hearkened 

Grief  like   a   hushed    sea   swelling ; 
Jehovah's   fear  hath   darkened 

On   every   human   dwelling. 
I   know    when   man   assaileth 

The   ear   of  heaven   with   moaning, 
That   mortal   courage   faileth, 

My   people's   heart   is   groaning ! 


396 


POUR   ELISE   FRISELL. 

(Chateaubriand. ) 

THE  coffin  sinks,  and  sink  the  roses  white, 
A  father's  tribute  in  his  sorrowing  hour  : 

Earth,  that  bore  both,  now  hiding  from  the  light, 
Young  girl,  young  flower  ! 

Ah,  ne'er  return  them  to  this  world  profane  ! 

This  world  where  mourning,  anguish,  sorrow,  lower. 
Winds  bruise  and  scatter,  sunbeams  burn  and  stain, 

Young  girl,  young  flower !  , 

Thou  sleep'st,  poor  child,  unbowed  by  years  of  care, 
Fearing  the  task  and  heat  of  day  no  more ; 

Both  just  outlived  their  morning  fresh  and  fair, 
Young  girl,  young  flower  ! 

Thy  father  bends  above  thy  last  repose, 

Pale  are  the  lines  that  mark  his  temples  hoar ; 

Around  thy  root,  old  oak,  Time  ruthless  mows, 
Young  girl,  —  young  flower  J 


397 


LA   FLEUR   ET   LE    PAPILLON. 

(Victor  Hugo.) 

A  FLOWER  said  to  the  butterfly  of  heaven, 

Depart  no  more ! 
Ah  !  see  what  diverse  fates  to  us  are  given,  — 

I  stand,  you  soar  ! 

Yet  we  both  love,  and  far  from  mortals  dwelling 

Pass  the  bright  hours  : 
Like  in  ourselves,  and  as  they  still  are  telling, 

We  both  are  flowers. 

Alas  !  earth  chains  me,  thou-in  air  art  flying,  — 

Stern  destiny  ! 
I  would  embalm  thy  flight  with  odorous  sighing, 

Breathed  through  the  sky. 

But  no  !  thou  wanderest  far,  'mid  countless  flowers, 

On  pinions  fleet : 
I  watch  my  shadow  through  the  weary  hours 

Turn  at  my  feet. 

Thou  fliest,  then  returnest,  still  adorning 
Thy  various  spheres ; 


398  TRANSLATIONS. 

Still  finding  me  with  every  new-born  morning 
Bathed  in  my  tears. 

Oh !  that  our  love  may  still  be  true  and  tender, 

My  king  divine  ! 
Take  root  as  I,  or  give  me  wings  of  splendor 

Like  unto  thine  ! 


LE   JUIF    ERRANT. 

(Beranger. ) 

CHRISTIAN,  to  a  suffering  traveller 

Give  a  draught  of  water  at  thy  gate ! 
I  am  he,  the  ever-wand'ring  Hebrew, 

Hurried  on  by  whirlwinds  to  my  fate. 
Never  older,  though  surviving  ages, 

Toward  the  world's  far  end  I  turn  mine  eyes, 
Every  night  I  hope  I  will  know  no  morrow, 
Every  morning  sees  the  sun  arise. 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore  ! 


LE   JUIF    ERRANT.  399 

Ah  !  for  eighteen  lingering  cycles, 

Over  silent  Greek  and  Roman  ashes, 
Over  ruins  of  a  thousand  kingdoms, 

Me  the  wild,  unsparing  whirlwind  dashes. 
I  have  seen  the  germ  of  virtue  fruitless,  — 

I  have  seen  how  fruitful  ill  can  be, 
And  to  live  beyond  the  old  world's  glory, 
Two  new  worlds  arising  from  the  sea. 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore ! 

God  for  punishment  hath  changed  me. 

Love  to  all  that  die  my  worn  heart  bears. 
But  the  wretch  for  whom  a  home  is  smiling, 
Far  from  all  the  sudden  whirlwind  tears. 
Many  a  beggar  comes  with  eye  imploring 
For  the  boon  wherewith  alone  I  bless, 
Who  can  find  no  pause  to  grasp,  in  passing, 
Even  the  hand  I  long  in  his  to  press. 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore ! 

Underneath  the  tree  in  blossom, 

On  the  turf,  or  where  cool  waves  rejoice, 

If  I  strive  to  soothe  my  lonely  anguish, 
Loud  I  hear  the  whirlwind's  raging  voice. 

Ah  !  what  matters  it,  thou  angry  heaven, 

This  short  respite  snatched  from  wrath  divine  ? 


4°0  TRANSLATIONS. 

Is  then  all  eternity  sufficient 

To  repose  from  such  a  toil  as  mine  ? 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore! 

Sometimes  bright  and  happy  children, 

Of  my  own,  retrace  the  imaged  forms ; 
If  the  sight  refresh  my  longing  vision, 

Lo  !  the  whirlwind  hurls  its  furious  storms. 
Ah  !  old  men,  what  price  untold  could  tempt  ye 

Me  to  envy  life's  unsetting  day  ? 
These  fair  children  whom  I  smile  in  greeting  — 
Soon  my  feet  shall  brush  their  dust  away. 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er; 
Evermore,  evermore ! 

If  the  city  of  my  fathers 

Not  entirely  to  the  dust  has  gone, 
And  I  strive  to  linger  by  its  ruins, 

Still  the  fearful  whirlwind  thunders  "  On  !" 
"  On  !"  and  also  cries  that  voice  of  terror, 
"  Rest  remains  when  all  beside  shall  die. 
Do  not  they  who  sleep  among  thy  fathers 
In  -their  tomb,  thy  place  of  rest  deny  ?" 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore  ! 


MAUDIT    PRINTEMPS.  401 

I  outraged,  with  laugh  inhuman, 

Thine  expiring  pangs,  thou  Son  of  God  ! 
Look  !  beneath  my  feet  the  road  is  flying  — 

Hark  !  the  whirlwind  hurries  me  abroad.  — 
Ye  whose  hearts  to  charity  are  strangers, 

Tremble  at  the  awful  doom  I  bear. 
'Tis  not  God's  eternal  nature, 
;Tis  humanity  avenged  here  ! 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore  ! 


MAUDIT   PRINTEMPS. 

(Beranger.) 

I  SAW  her  through  my  window-pane 

All  Winter  smiling  at  her  own  ; 
Unknown  I  loved,  was  loved  again, 

And  kisses  crossed  that  both  had  thrown. 
Through  the  old  lime-trees'  branches  gray, 

Our  sole  delight,  fond  looks  to  turn  ; 
But  now  between  us  leaves  will  play. 

Why,  hateful  Spring,  wilt  thou  return  ? 

26 


402  TRANSLATIONS. 

Ah !    I  shall  lose  her  in  their  shade, 

The  lovely  angel  over  there  ! 
Who  fed  with  crumbs,  —  dear,  tender  maid  ! 

Poor  birds  that  felt  the  frosty  air. 
She  calls  them,  and  the  cares  she  shows 

To  lovers'  silent  signals  turn. 
Ah  !    what  so  fair  as  Winter's  snows  ! 

Why,  hateful  Spring,  must  thou  return  ? 

Depart,  and  I  should  see  her  now, 
Rising,  when  sleep  has  passed  away, 

Fresh  as  they  paint  Aurora's  brow, 
Parting  the  curtains  of  the  day. 

And  still  my  lips  would  breathe  at  night, 
"  Alas !    my  star  has  ceased  to  burn  ! 

She  sleeps  —  no  more  I  see  her  light."  — 
Why,  hateful  Spring,  must  thou  return  ? 

I  pine  till  Winter  comes  again. 

Would  that  I  heard,  with  welcome  sound, 
Tinkling  against  the  window-pane, 

The  hailstones  rattle  and  rebound. 
If  all  thine  ancient  realm  were  mine, 

Thy  gales,  thy  flowers,  thy  warmth  I'd  spurn, 
Since  here  no  more  her  smiles  can  shine. 

Why,  hateful  Spring,  must  thou  return. 


LA    SYLPHIDE. 

(Beranger. ) 

E'EN  reason  is  not  always  wise, 

Her  torch-light  is  not  always  clear, 
For  your  existence  she  denies, 

Sylphs  !    charming  people  of  the  air ! 
Thrusting  her  aegis  dull  aside, 

That  rested  on  my  curious  eyes, 
Lately  I  saw  a  sylphide  glide. 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities  ! 

Your  cradles  are  the  roses'  breasts, 

Of  Zephyr  and  Aurora  born; 
And  in  your  brilliant  changes  rests 

The  secret  light  of  pleasure's  morn. 
Our  tears  ye  dry  with  gentle  breath, 

Ye  keep  unstained  the  azure  skies, 
My  sylphide's  charm  demand  my  faith, 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities  ! 

Ah  !    well  I  knew  her  dwelling-place, 
When,  at  the  ball,  or  at  the  feast, 

I  saw  her  childish  form  of  grace 
Most  lovely  when  arrayed  the  least, 

A  ribbon  lost,  —  a  jewel  gone,  — 
More  fair  as  each  adornment  flies, 


404  TRANSLATIONS. 

Of  all  your  race  the  loveliest  one. 
Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities ! 

She  adds  a  thousand  graces  new 

To  your  caprices  sweet  and  wild ; 
A  child  that's  spoiled,  perhaps  'tis  true, 

But  ah !  'tis  sylphs  have  spoiled  the  child. 
I  see  beneath  that  listless  air 

What  dreaming  love  dwells  in  her  eyes ; 
Ye  who  make  tender  hearts  your  care, 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities ! 

But  in  her  gentle  childhood  dwells 

A  mind  arrayed  in  fairer  light 
Than,  e'er  your  dream-enchanting  spells 

Threw  o'er  the  sleep  of  young  delight. 
From  sparkling  wit  aloft  she  springs 

And  bears  me  with  her  to  the  skies ; 
Ye  who  possessed  her  borrowed  wings, 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities ! 

Ah  !    like  a  meteor's  rapid  train, 

Too  quickly  to  our  eyes  denied,  — 
Shall  I  behold  her  form  again  ? 

Perhaps  some  sylph  has  called  her  bride. 
No !  like  the  bees'  mysterious  queen, 

In  some  strange  land  her  empire  lies; 
Conduct  me  to  that  realm  serene, 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities ! 


4°5 


LA   MOUCHE. 

(Beranger. ) 

AMID  our  frolic  laughter's  sound, 

'Mid  tinkling  cups  and  music  gay, 
What  murmuring  insect  hovers  round 

Returning  when  'tis  chased  away  ? 
Some  Power,  I  think,  who  hovers  near, 

Jealous  of  bliss  it  can't  annoy ; 
Permit  it  not  to  murmur  here, 

To  murmur  at  our  joy  ! 

Transformed  into  a  hideous  fly, 

My  friends,  it  is  —  I  know  the  guest  — 
Reason,  that  scolding  deity, 

Enraged  at  such  a  joyous  feast ! 
The  thunder  sounds,  the  storm  draws  near, 

Her  dark  frown  threatens  to  destroy ; 
Permit  her  not  to  murmur  here, 

To  murmur  at  our  joy  ! 

Tis  Reason,  whispering  low  to  me ; 
"  Thy  years  should  calmer  pleasures  bring 
Cease  drinking,  laughter,  jollity, 
No  longer  love,  no  longer  sing !" 


406  TRANSLATIONS. 

Her  belfry  rings  its  peal  of  fear 
At  every  flame  of  sweet  alloy ; 

Permit  her  not  to  murmur  here, 
To  murmur  at  our  joy  ! 

'Tis  Reason  !    ah  !    beware,  Lisette  ! 

On  thee  she  longs  her  sting  to  prove : 
Ye  powers !    in  that  fair  neck  'tis  set  — 

The  red  blood  springs,  haste  every  Love ! 
Pursue  the  wretch's  flight  of  fear, 

And  with  your  blows  her  life  destroy ; 
Permit  her  not  to  murmur  here, 

To  murmur  at  our  joy  ! 

Triumph  !    I  see  her  drowning  gasp 

Deep  in  the  cup  Lisette  hath  poured, — 
Triumph !    to  Pleasure's  rightful  grasp 

Now  let  the  sceptre  be  restored  ! 
A  zephyr  shakes  her  crown  with  fear, 

A  fly  can  all  our  peace  destroy,  — 
But  fear  no  more  its  murmurs  here, 

Its  murmurs  at  our  joy  ! 


THE    END. 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


PAGE 

A  fairy  lived  in  a  lily  bell,             .         .          .          .  158 

A  fitful,  wistful  April  sky,             .          .         .          .  116 

A  flower  said  to  the  butterfly  of  heaven,     .         .  397 

A  hot  noon  filled  the  Autumn  sky,                .         .  51 

A  little  sprite  sat  in  a  high  oak-tree,             .         .  142 

A  long,  bare  ward  in  the  hospital;       .          .          .  236 

A  mighty  lion  in  the  desert  dwelt;       .  •       .          .  254 

A  silent  church  on  a  lonely  hill ;          ...         .  263 

A  silent,  odor-laden  air,      .....  202 

A  thousand  years  shall  come  and  go,                      .  48 

A  week  ago  to  day,  when  red-haired  Sally            .  386 

A  wonder-worker  all  night  long,         -         .         .  250 

Ah !   could  I  read  Schemhammphorasch,     .          .  17 

Alas !  for  I  am  flying          .                  ...  393 

Alas,  what  hast  thou  done  to  me?       ...  60 

All  forward !   All  forward !  .         .         .                   .  294 

All  lovely  lies  the  valley,     ...  38 

All  the  night  long,  all  the  long  night,           .          .  208 
Alone,  alone  on  the  mountains,  the  mountains  wild 

and  high,               176 

Amid  our  frolic  laughter's  sound,         .         .          .  405 

An  awful  light  on  land  and  sea,            ...  97 

At  last  the  breath  of  Spring  begins  to  stir,           .  289 

Be  silent,  friend  !  thy  laugh  and  jest  delay  ;         .  216 

Blessed  be  nothing!"  an  old  woman  said,   .          .  195 

Blow  sweet  south-wind  from  the  sea,            .          .  204 

Calmly  dawns  the  golden  day,     ....  47 

Christian,  to  a  suffering  traveller          .         .         .  398 

Come,  gallop  my  masters  !   Come  gallop  my  men  !  365 

Come  gentle  sweet  ladies,  with  kerchief  and  fan  ;  319 


408  INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


PAGE 

Come,  gently  breathing  o'er  the  eager  land,         .  144 

Come,  thou  dead  image,  to  thy  rest !            .         .  168 

Dark  are  the  vaults  of  Istakhar ;         .         .         .  358 

Darlings  of  the  forest !.....  8 

Darlings  of  the  forest,         .          .                   .         .  297 

Dear  night,  from  the  hills  return  !  167 

Deep  in  the  lily  its  odor  lies,       .         .  212 

Do  not  think  of  her  with  death.           .         .         .  233 

Don  Guzman  in  Tarifa,  heard  Moorish  cymbals 

sound  ;        .         .         .         ...         .         .  370 

Down  in  the  wide,  gray  river,     .         .         .         .  127 

Dream  divine  and  tender, 114 

E'en  reason  is  not  always  wise,  ....  403 

Fair  and  peaceful  daisies,    .         .                  .         .  140 
Fairy  !  Fairy  !  fair  and  fine ,                          ...  83 

Fasten  the  chamber !            .         .         .         .         .  21 

Flutter  thy  new  wings  lightly,     ....  24 

Fold  up  thy  hands,  my  weary  soul,      .          .          .  103 

Genevieve  the  Nivernaise,            ....  344 

Give  !   as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of  heaven  ;  15 

Give  her  the  soldier's  rite  !  264 

"Goon!"  To  that  imperial  throne        .         .         .  367 

Hail  to  the  Great  Republic !  240 

"Hark!" 271 

Hark  !   Am  I  with  the  living,  or  asleep,       .          .  246 

Hear'st  thou  the  song  it  sings  to  me  ?          .         .  162 

Her  little  prayer  at  night  she  said,      .         .         .  274 

Here  all  day  long,  in  storm  or  sun,     .         .         .  284 

High  on  the  hills  Lord  Heron  he  dwells,    .         .  330 

Hope  went  singing  southward,             ...  74 

How  airily  she  fled  away,    .                             .  282 

How  could  he  choose  but  love  the  Queen,           .  6 

How  does  a  woman  love  ?   Once,  no  more  :         .  232 

How  shall  I  thank  thee,  Lord  for  this  repose  ?    .  235 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES.  409 


PAGE 

How  the  stars  shine  out  at  sea  !           ...  296 

How  the  wind  yells  on  the  Gulf  and  prairie  !      .  186 

I  am.  looking  up  and  down,           ....  29 

I  bring  my  hymn  of  thankfulness,       .                   .  210 

I  built  a  Palace,  white  and  high,          ...  68 

I  give  thee  treasures  hour  by  hour,     .          .          .   .  91 

I  have  had  all:  over  and'in  that  all,    .         .         .  287 

I  hear  the  distant  city  bells,         ....  50 

I  heard  a  voice  cry  through  the  night,          .         .  147 

I  sat  beside  a  darkened  sea,          ....  I 

I  saw  her  through  my  window-pane             .         .  401 

I  swan  !   its  pleasant  now  we've  beaten,       .         .  229 

I  took  my  baby  to  the  sands,       ....  348 

I  walk  amid  a  cloud  of  fear,         ....  276 

I  walk  the  track  with  doubtful  mind,            .         .  292 

I  want  a  valentine,       ......  85 

I  watch  her  in  the  corner  there,            .         .          .  101 

I  wear  a  rose  in  my  hair, 108 

If  I  were  a  cloud  in  heaven,        .         .         .         .  112 

In  part  we  prophesy.     The  restless  heart             .  190 

In  summer-time  how  fair  it  showed  !  .          .         .  238 
In  the  dead  calm  of  night,  when  the  stars  are  all 

shining, 189 

Indolent,  indolent !   yes,   I  am  indolent ;     .         .  164 

Is  this  Thy  peace,  O  Lord  of  love  !    .  87 

It  sings  to  me  in  sunshine,           ....  63 

It  swings  upon  the  leafless  tree,           .         .          .  266 

Judock  the  sorcerer,  Kakous  born,      .          .         .  379 

Last  blossoms  of  the  blooming  year,            .          .•  119 

Lay  down  my  head,  dear,  it's  no  use  to  cry —     .  94 

Liberty  !   dream  of  man's  short  eager  day,            .  305 

Little  dancing  harlequin  !    .         .         .         .         .  145 

Lord  I  will  not  strive  nor  cry  ;              ...  77 

Lord  !   put  a  new  song  in  my  lips,       ...  66 


410  INDEX   OF    FIRST    LINES. 


PAGE 

'  Love  is  better  than  house  and  lands  ;           .         .  175 

Lo,  mother  !  it  is  here  —  thou  hast  thy  will :       .  183 

Loves  serene,  uncarnate  Graces !         .         .         .  221 

Master,  help  !     From  hour  to  hour,    .         .         .  205 

My  darling!  my  darling!  the  midnight  is  here,  173 

My  solemn  friend,  whose  dismal  lace,         .•         .  213 

New,  grassy  scents,  stir  everywhere,           .         .  217 

Night  hovering  o'er  the  languid  lily-bell,     .          .  165 

O  Shepherd,  all  divine,       .....  32 

"Osun!"  said  the  rose,        .....  4 

Oh,  land  beloved !  oh,  land  unknown  !        .         .  181 

Oh,  Love  divine,  ineffable !          .         .         .         .  151 

Oh,  my  baby,  my  child,  my  darling !            .         .  385 

Once  on  a  time  she  came  to  me,           ...  81 

Once,  when  the  new  moon  glittered,            .         .  178 

Only  a  little  verdant  lane,             .          .          .          .  156 

Open  the  door,  dear  heart,  and  see,     ...  41 

Oriole  on  the  willow  tree !            .          .         .          ,  1 70 

Out  by  my  door  the  apple  tree             .         .         .  256 

Over  the  river,  on  the  hill,          ....  28 

Pale,  broken  bud,  that  cannot  be  a  rose  !     .         .  86 

Patience  ?  Yes,  that's  a  woman's  game  ;  23 

Put  every  tiny  robe  away !            ....  160 

Queen  regnant  of  the  summer  wood,            .         .  121 

Roses,  roses,  roses,             .         .         ...         .  187 

Saddle,  saddle,  saddle !        .         .         .         .         .  383 

Sadly  before  the  window 129 

Safe  by  the  fireside  I  hear  the  winds  blow,           .  125 

See  how  they  crowd  and  snort  below,           .          .  124 

She  lay  in  her  cradle,  sweet  and  fair,           .         .  280 

She  stood  upon  the  barren  strand,                 .          .  198 

She  walked  in  the  garden,            ....  200 
"  Show  me  the  Sangreal,  Lord  !   Show  me  Thy  blood  !   268 

Silent  we  sat,  within  a  darkened  room  ;       .          .  248 

I , 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES.  411 

PAGE 

Singer  of  priceless  melody,         .  .105 

Sole  and  lonely  lived  the  maid,             .         .         .  324 

Sole  she  sat  beside  her  window,          ...  10 

Spirit  of  light  divine ! 57 

Standing  in  the  temple  door,        ....  149 

Steadfast  and  sad  he  stands ;  his  level  eyes,         .  99 
Stretch  out  thy  hand,  insatiate  Time !           .         .  106 
Sunset  on  the  mountains  hoary,           .         .         .  133 
Sweet  Autumn  Wind,  whose  breath  with  whisper 
ing  flow,       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  1 79 

Sweet  summer  night,  beside  the  sea,            .         .  219 

Swinging  slowly  through  the  thunder,         .         .  46 

Symphorien  !   Symphorien  !  1 1 

The  beautiful  Princess  Dagmar,           .         .         .  226 

The  bee  knows  honey,         .....  225 

The  box  is  not  of  stainless  alabaster,           .         .  132 

The  coffin  sinks,  and  sink  the  roses  white,           .  396 

The  curving  beach  and  shining  bay,              .          .  222 

The  death  of  holy  Tankerfield,            .         .         .  339 

The  flowers  are  idle  and  full  of  thought,     .         .  70 
The  lady's  footsteps  fall  like  snow  upon  the  castle 

floor,             374 

The  last  sad  note  had  passed  away,     ...  62 

The  merry  bells  go  singing  by,            ...  89 

The  old,  old  story  o'er  again —            .         .         .  191 

The  poet's  thoughts  are  full  of  might,          .         .  75 

The  river  flows  and  flows  away,           ...  65 

The  silent,  silent,  Sunday  morning —         .         .  197 

The  south-wind  blows  a  wakeful  blast,         .         .  36 

The  south-wind  wanders  through  the  noon,         .  26 

The  stranger  wandering  in  the  Switzer's  land,     .  14 

The  Summer  comes,  the  Summer  dies.        .         .  224 

The  summer  sun  bedecks  Anjou,         .         .         .  336 

The  sweet,  sad  stir  of  Spring,     ....  95 


412  INDEX   OF    FIRST    LINES. 

PAGE 

The  sweetest  lady  in  the  land,     ....  352 

The  west- wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew,          .  192 

There  are  steps  upon  the  snow ;          .         .         .  100 

There  comes  a  time  of  rest  to  thee,            . .       • .  72 

There  goes  an  old  Gaffer  over  the  hill,        ,         .  180 

There  is  a  new  song  in  my  lips,          ".'        .         .  92 

There  is  a  tall  gray  cliff  before  mine  eyes,           .  260 

There  was  a  man  in  Funen,         .         .         .         .'  333 

They  come  from  all  the  winds  that  blow,     .         .  201 

Thou  graceful  golden  willow  tree,       .         .         „  277 

Thou  solitary,  wayward,  restless  heart,       .--.     :*  218 

Three  things  never  come  again.           .         .        f.  '  78 

Through  level  fields  of  silent  snow,    .       ,,. -     •  -^  .  55 

Toll,  toll,  toll!  soar,  thou  passing  bell,       .         .  44 

To-night,  if  true  the  legend  tells,        .         .    •   \  .  33 

Wearily,  wearily,  wearily :           .  -      .         .        '.  252 

Weep  not  for  the  dead !  they  lie          ,         ...     .,  113 

What  is  thy  hap,  lamenting  soul  ?       .        v        .    .  261 

"  What  shall  I  do?"  said  a  little  maid,           .         .  299 

When  April  woods  are  all  in  bud,        .         .         .  155 

When  I  am  lying  pale  and  dead,          .         .        H  152 

When  I  remember      .         .         .         .         .         .  137 

When  Love  is  dead,  who  writes  his  epitaph  ?      .  231 

When  night  comes  brooding  o'er  me,          .         .  110 

When  o'er  the  mountain  steeps           •>     ,    .     ,    .  135 

When  the  sky  is  red  and  hazy,             '.         .   \     .  388 

Who  knows  the  secret  of  the  rose  ?             ...  206 

Why  dost  thou  wear  thy  mother's  name,     .         .  290 

Why,  who  is  this  comes  down  the  street,  53 

With  eager  steps  I  go,         .         .  -  .     . .••      .    .  •   .  122 

Ye  vacant  and  far-spreading  silences,           .         .  117 

You  ask  me  if  I  love  you  still,    .         .         .  .    .   .  59 

You  bound  and  made  your  sport  of  him,  1'hilistia !  228 


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GEORG    EBERS. 

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the  German  by  Eleanor  Grove;          in  box,  $11.00,  half  calf  extra,  in 


revised  edition,  two  vols.  paper, 
80  cts.,   cloth,  $1.50. 

A  Question,  from  the  German  by 
Mary  J.  Safford;  authorized  edi 
tion,  one  vol.  paper,  40  cts. 
cloth,  75  cts. 

A  Word,  Only  a  Word,  from  the 
German  by  Mary  J.  Satford,  one 
vol.  paper,  50  cts.,  cloth,  90  cts. 

Homo  Sum,  from  the  German  by 
Clara  Bell ;  authorized  edition, 
one  vol.  paper,  40  cts.,  cloth, 
75  cts. 

Serapis,  from  the  German  by  Clara 
Bell ;  authorized  edition,  one  vol. 
paper,  50  cts.,  cloth,  90  cts. 

The  Bride  of  the  Nile,  from 
the  German  by  Clara  Bell ; 
authorized  edition,  two  vols., 
paper,  $1.00,  cloth,  $1.75. 

The  Burgomaster's  Wife,  from 
the  German  by  Mary  J.  Safford, 
one  vol.  paper,  50,  cloth,  75  cts. 

The  Emperor,  from  the  German, 
by  Clara  Bell ;  authorized  edi 
tion,  two  vols.  paper,  80  cts., 
cloth,  $1.50  per  set. 

The  Sisters,  from  the  German  by 
Clara  Bell;  authorized  edition, 
one  vol.  pa.  40  cts.,  cl.  75  cts. 

Uarda,  from  the  German  by  Clara 


neat  case,  $28.00. 
Ebers'  Romances  and  Bi 
ographies,  16  vols.,  cloth,  in 
box,  $13.00,  half  calf,  extra,  in 
neat  case,  $32.00. 

ERNST  ECKSTEIN. 

Aphrodite,  from  the  German,  by 

Mary  J.  Safford,  one  vol.  paper, 

50  cts.,  cloth,  90  cts. 
Prusias,  from  the  German  by  Clara 

Bell,    two    vols.     paper,    $1.00 

cloth,  $1.75  per  set. 
Quintus  Claudius,  from  the 

German  by  Clara  Bell,  two  vols. 

paper,  $1.00,  cloth,  1.75  per  set. 

The  Chaldean  Magician,  from 
the  German,  by  Mary  J.  Safford, 
one  vol.  pa.  25  cts.,  cl.  50  cts. 

The  Will,  from  the  German  by 
Clara  Bell,  two  vols.  paper, 
$1.00,  cloth,  $1.75  per  set. 

ROBERT  HAMERLING. 

Aspasia,  from  the  German  by  Mary 
J.  Safford,  two  vols.  paper,  $1.00, 
cloth,  $1.75  per  set. 

W.  VON  HILLERN. 
A  Graveyard  Flower,  from  the 


Bell;  authorized  edition,  revised,!         German  by  Clara  Bell,  one  vol. 

corrected,  and  enlarged  from  the]         paper,  40  cts.,  cloth,  75  cts. 

latest  German  edition,  two  vols.  Erllcstinei  from  the  German   by 

paper,  80  cts.,  cloth,  $1.50.  S.  Baring  Gould,  two  vols.  paper, 

Loreiiz  Alma  Tadema,  his  Life  80  cts.,  cloth,  $1.50  per  set. 

and  Works,  from  the  German  by  Higher   Than    The   Church. 

Mary  J.  Safford,  one  vol.  paper,          from   the  German,   by  Mary  J. 

40  cts.,  cloth,  75  cts.  Safford,  one  vol.  paper,  25  cts. 

Richard  -Lepsius,  a  biography,!  cloth-  5°  cts. 

from  the  German  by  Zoe  Dana  The  Hour  Will  Come,  from  the 

Underbill,  one  vol.  I2mo.  paper,          German,  by  Clara  Bell,  one  vol. 

60  cts.  cloth,  $1.25.  paper,  40  cts.,  cloth,  75  cts. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


GERMAN  AUTHORS.- Continued. 


OSSIP   SCHUBIN. 


GEORGE  TAYLOR. 


Our  Own  Set,   from  the  German  Amiiious,   from   the   German   by 
by  Clara   Bell,   one  vol.  paper,!         Mary  J.  Safford,  one  vol.  paper, 


50  cts.,  cloth,  90  ctS 
Gloria.  Victis,  from  the  German, 
by    Mary    Maxwell,    one    vol., 
paper,  50  cts.,  cloth,  90  cts. 

ADOLF  WILBRANDT. 

Fridplin's  mystical  Mar 
riage,  from  the  German,  by 
Clara  Bell,  one  vol.  paper,  5octs 
cloth,  90  cts. 


50  cts.,  cloth,  90  cts. 


J.  Safford,  one  vol.  paper,  5octs. 
cloth,  90  cts. 

WILHELM  WALLOTH. 
The  King's  'Treasure -House. 

from  the  German  by  Mary  J. 
Safford,  one  vol.  paper,  50  cts., 
cloth.  90  cts. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 

Poems,  new  and  enlarged  edition, 

one  vol.,  I20K)  cloth,  $1.50. 

LADY  CUST. 
The   Invalid's  Own  Book,  a 

Collection  of  Recipes  from  vari 
ous  books  and  various  countries. 
One  vol.,  paper,  25  cts.  Cloth, 
60  cts. 

A.  M.  GIBSON. 
A  Political  Crime,  The  History 
of  the  Great   Fraud,    one  vol., 
121110.    cloth,   price    $1.50,    Gilt 
Top  uncut,   $1.65. 

S.  REYNOLDS  HOLE. 
A  Book  About  Roses.     How  to 

grow  and  show  them  !  one  vol. 
paper,  50  cts.,  cloth,  90  cts. 

A.  RAMOS  DIASdeVILLEGAS 

A  Pra.ctical  Method  for 
Learning  Spanish,  one  vol. 
I2mo.  cloth,  price  75  cts. 


G.  H.  LEWES. 

Kanthorpe,  one  vol.  paper.  40  cts. 
cloth,  75  cts. 

OTTO  KUPHAL,  PH.  D. 

A  Method  for  the  Idiomatic 
Study  of  German. 

Part  One,  Lessons,  fixercises, 
and  Vocabulary,  large,  I2mo., 
536  pages.  Price  $2.25. 

Part  Two,  Notes.  [In  Press.] 

GEORGE  E.  RAUM. 

A  Tour  Around    the  World' 

one  vol.  121110.,  Cloth  Gilt  bides, 
$1.50. 


Henry  Irving,  a  short  account 
of  his  public  life.  Paper,  with 
frontispiece,  50  cts.,  cloth,  with 
four  illustrations,  $1.25. 


Locomotives  and  Locomo 
tive  Building,  being  a  brief 
sketch  of  the  growth  of  the  kail- 
road  system  and  of  the  various 
Improvements  in  Loc  'motive 
Building  in  America,  together 
with  a  History  of  the  Origin  and 
Growth  of  the  Rogers  Locomo 
tive  and  Machine  Works.  Pater- 
son,  N.  J.,  from  1831  to  1886. 
Illustrated,  one  volume,  octavo, 
Cloth,  $2.00. 


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